Last of the Summer Moët
Page 22
The intrepid Ellen, veteran of war-torn cities the globe over, meekly obeyed and watched as Laura filled up a pan for the pasta and began to chop the anchovies. It would have been better with some spinach and pine nuts, as in Mimi’s recipe, but there was definitely a sauce here.
‘Just talk,’ Laura said, when Ellen asked if she could do anything. Chatting over cooking was the best sort of chat. Absorbed, yet relaxed. She and Mimi had done it most nights. ‘Tell me about your career.’
Ellen pulled a face. ‘Do we have to? Can’t we talk about food instead?’
‘What about memorable meals of your career?’ Laura suggested.
‘Brilliant idea!’ Ellen was immediately off, relating anecdote after anecdote that Laura, peeling and energetically pounding, carefully committed to memory.
‘In Iran they have this wonderful dish with almonds. I ate it with the Ayatollah...’
Chop, stir, sizzle. Laura shook the pan and listened.
‘There’s a particular chicken stew they make in Syria with saffron, served with sweet rice. I ate it with a family there, as bombs dropped in the background...’ The expression in Ellen’s eyes was distant, reminiscing.
‘In Baghdad I ate quails stuffed with rose petals...’
Laura’s stomach rumbled as she drained the spaghetti and stirred in the warm sauce, making sure to coat every strand. This was going to make a great feature. Perhaps it could actually be a series over several issues; Ellen’s derring-do stories woven between delicious recipes. Thomasella, the food editor, was one of the few remaining staff members possessed of a brain. She would immediately see the point and such an unexpected combination of elements was very much the Society Laura had hoped to create as editor.
Ah well. No point crying over spilt milk, or spilt rose water; a central ingredient of Middle Eastern cuisine, as Ellen was explaining.
‘Got any bowls?’ She hated to interrupt her subject in full flow, but they’d be eating out of the pan with forks otherwise, which was a bit too close to Caspar in his Brixton days. How far he had come, with his Ivys nomination. She pushed him from her mind. Best actor, worst friend.
‘Sure.’ Ellen rummaged in another cupboard. ‘Oh wow. Look what I’ve found!’ She waved a gold-foil bottle with a distinctive red seal on the label. ‘Someone gave me this Moët ages ago. I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘Let’s drink it!’ urged Laura, adding for the benefit of journalist Ellen that her French grandmother always had a glass with the morning papers.
‘Why?’ asked Ellen, easing off the cage around the cork.
‘She says the news looks better that way.’
Ellen hooted. ‘She’s right!’
The bottle wasn’t cold, but Laura had the answer.
‘Got any ice cubes? We could drink it French style, à la glace.’
‘Gosh, yes. I drank it like that with the Macrons.’ The veteran war correspondent pressed a button on the fridge front. A stream of ice cubes rattled out.
Laura beamed. ‘Perfect.
Reminiscing again, she followed Laura back and forth between the balcony and the kitchen, carrying plates, setting the table. Laura was beginning to feel very at home in the apartment; very at home with Ellen too. How much nicer it would be to live here than Cod’s Head Row. She swallowed at the memory of last night’s intruder. What if they came back again?
‘...and so President Trump had to shut up after that. Oh wow, is that lunch? You’re a magician!’
It looked pretty good, Laura had to admit, especially sprinkled with a handful of bright green shreds; the next-door balcony had a parsley pot which she had just been able to reach.
Ellen brought the champagne in a couple of whisky tumblers, ice cubes clinking. ‘If you drink it like this,’ Laura explained, ‘it doesn’t make your breath smell.’
Ellen grinned. ‘The things you know, girl. Harry was right about you.’
Laura, who had been raising her first forkful of pasta to her mouth, now put it down. Shock rippled through her. Her appetite, she found, had completely drained away.
‘You okay?’ Ellen was spreading the square of kitchen roll Laura had found for napkins over her narrow knees.
Laura was far from okay. Harry’s name, flung so unexpectedly into the air, echoed like an explosion. ‘It’s just that,’ she managed eventually, ‘I haven’t heard from him in a while.’ Although I thought I saw him the other day. She stopped before she could say this. Ellen might think she was a fantasist.
‘Radio silence?’ Ellen was twisting pasta round her fork.
‘Kind of.’
‘Goes with the territory.’
‘What is the territory though?’ The million-dollar question. Would Ellen tell her?
‘You can’t seriously expect me to answer that.’
But having broached the subject, Laura had no intention of retreating. ‘Is he doing something dangerous?’
‘Can’t tell you that either.’ Ellen forked in more spaghetti. ‘Believe me, I would if I could.’
Laura was frustrated. ‘Can’t you tell me anything?’
‘Just one thing.’ Ellen lay down her fork and took a contemplative swig of Moët.
‘What?’
‘He’s pretty keen on you.’
Laura was too surprised to speak for a second. Then she said, ‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’
Ellen forked up more pasta. ‘This is amazing.’
Laura eyed her. ‘You were saying?’
‘Oh yes.’ The blue eyes twinkled. ‘He’s keen, take it from me. I’ve known him with girls before. Plenty of them.’
An icy-cold wave broke over Laura. Was this the moment she found out that Harry had a wife in every port?
‘Don’t worry. He wasn’t in love with them.’
This begged a question Laura couldn’t bring herself to ask.
Perhaps Ellen sensed this, because she said no more on the subject. They returned to the topic of war-reporting until the pasta was finished, the bottle was drained and the sun went behind the clouds. A breeze began to blow down the river. ‘I have to go,’ Ellen said, frowning as she stubbed out another cigarette.
At the door, Laura turned to her. ‘Say hi to Harry if you see him?’
‘If I see him.’
‘And... give him my love.’
Ellen nodded. Her sudden smile made the sun come out again, even though it hadn’t. She pressed Laura’s hand. ‘Don’t give up on him,’ she said. ‘He needs you.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Laura barely noticed the journey back to the office. She felt full of joy and hope. Harry needed her. He might even love her.
It filled her with with longing. She was more desperate to see him than ever before.
On the Tube, she stared down at her hands and felt tears gathering in her eyes.
Exiting at Oxford Circus, Laura forcibly pulled herself together, squaring her shoulders, raising her chin and tucking her hair behind her ears. She must put Harry out of her mind now and spend the next few hours dealing with whatever Clemency chose to throw at her. But she had her Ellen interview now, despite all attempts to thwart it.
Back in the office, her phone had reappeared. She looked over to Karlie. ‘No controlled explosion then?’ Laura asked sarcastically.
But Karlie and the rest of her colleagues were staring hard at their computer screens. Another Clemency edict, Laura assumed as she went over to discuss the food interview idea with Thomasella.
Among wedges of caviar-infused Parmesan and jars of pearl soup, Thomasella, too, was glued to her screen, open-mouthed.
‘I’ve got this great idea—’ Laura began, before the food editor interrupted.
‘Oh my God! Have you seen what he says about Angelina!’ Thomasella clamped a skeletal hand to her mouth.
‘What are you talking about?’
Thomasella stared up at Laura. Like most women who wrote about food and wine, she looked as if she never indulged in either. She was pale and stick-thin in a blac
k crochet minidress, dark hair in an elfin crop. ‘The emails story, of course!’
‘Emails?’ Whatever this story was she had missed it, along with her phone.
‘The leaked Hollywood ones!’ You can’t believe what this guy’s been saying.’
Leaked! Laura’s stomach rolled over. ‘Which guy?’
‘Tim Lacey. The director. You know, he did Tufnell Park and I Think I Might Be Fond of You.’
Even as Laura dashed back to her desk and pulled the story up on her own screen, her thoughts were flying to Wyatt and Kearn. This really was not going to help.
Tim Lacey certainly hadn’t held back. Studio heads, top publicity people, celebrity chefs, TV anchorpersons and leading screenwriters had been insulted just as thoroughly as Oscar-winning actors. A famous action star reportedly had chronic flatulence, a gorgeous actress had huge hairy feet and a smoothie heart-throb was gay with a beard for a wife. ‘And she’s gay herself,’ Lacey had added, for good measure.
Lacey had also freely passed on what Tinseltown’s best and brightest had said about each other. A bumptious British TV host had galloping halitosis, a famously philanthropic director was in reality ‘as mean as mouse shit’, a teen actor’s BO made your eyes water and Savannah Bouche was ‘a gold-digging vampire’. This was hardly news to Laura, but that her peers shared this view certainly was.
The biggest headlines, however, concerned Savannah’s secret unflattering view of Caspar, ostensibly her paramour. ‘Bond’s a Brainless Blowhard with a Dick You Need a Telescope to See’ was the quote most papers had used in their headlines. Savannah had evidently passed this treacherous view on to her agent, who had told Tim Lacey, who had, albeit inadvertently, now told the world.
Unfair, Laura thought. Her view was that Caspar’s equipment was more than adequate. But it probably depended on what you were used to. A brainless blowhard, though, was hard to dispute.
Given Caspar’s recent treatment of her, a little schadenfreude on her part would not have been unjustified. But a tiny corner of her felt sorry for him, knowing he would be hurt. Caspar, ever heedless of the impact of his own behaviour, was anything but resilient when others upset him.
Laura’s main concern was for Kearn, however. Of all the Great Hording-related leaks, this was the worst. Wyatt’s boyfriend was going to get lynched at this rate. He should leave the area, but Laura was pretty sure he wouldn’t. Not when doing so would look like an admission of guilt. And mean leaving Wyatt behind.
Laura scrolled through her contacts, bringing up Lulu’s number.
‘Is what?’ Lulu’s voice was a heavy whisper. ‘Am rehearsing, yes? Lady Mandy explaining me my motivation.’
‘But you’re a glass slipper! Sorry, a breezeblock boot!’
Lulu was affronted. ‘Is still needing tell me what is thinking, hmm?’
‘Look,’ said Laura, cutting straight to the chase. ‘You need to help Kearn.’
‘Is about Tim Lacey story?’
‘You know about it?’ But of course she did. Lulu was in Great Hording. The eye of the storm. The epicentre of the earthquake.
‘Everyone talk about it. Kiki faint. Lady Mandy punch air.’
‘Give Kearn sanctuary at Riffs. Otherwise there are going to be riots.’
‘Is riots already. Tim run out of town. Of willage. You see what he say about Sergei?’
‘I haven’t got to that bit yet,’ said Laura, scrolling down until she found Tim’s scorchingly ill-advised remarks on some of his films’ financial backers. ‘Goodness.’
‘Would have been badness,’ Lulu remarked, adding some of the threats Sergei had made. Kneecapping had been the least of it.
Laura felt panic rise. ‘We’ve got to help Kearn. We need to look after him.’
‘Because he is escape goat, hmm?’
‘But hopefully not, if you get to him in time.’
Lulu promised to send Vlad to Little Hording, and returned to her rehearsal.
Laura put her phone down on her desk. As she did so, something moved behind her. She turned to see Karlie walking softly off, delicate nose high in the air.
She opened a new file and began to write up her interview with Ellen. She typed rapidly, committing to the keyboard the details of the light-filled riverfront flat, and Ellen talking about war and pomegranates, gunfire and rose water against a background of hooting Thames barges. But of the conversation that made most impact, she did not type a word. ‘He’s pretty keen on you... he wasn’t in love with them... he needs you.’
Her phone was ringing. She stared at it, momentarily disoriented. She had been somewhere else altogether.
‘Can you believe it?’ The voice was young, male, and powerfully indignant. ‘Can you believe what she said about me?’
‘Caspar!’ The second she had uttered his name, Laura could have kicked herself. Karlie was hanging around again. Taking her phone, she went out of the office. There was a little atrium area by the lifts, with plants and sofas. She could talk there without being overheard.
‘She told me she loved me,’ Caspar complained.
Pointing out that he had said exactly that to her would not help, Laura sensed.
‘I put up with her. And her damned dogs. They bite everyone – even Steven Spielberg. Completely undisciplined. Aggressive. Spoilt. Loud. Horrible.’
‘The dogs?’
‘No, Savannah. How dare she say that about my crown jewels? She’s had more surgery on her twinkle than most women have on their face.’
Before Laura could say anything – and what, indeed, could she say? – he had launched into a monologue about atomic lip therapy, nose hair epilation, gluteal freezing and other edge-of-reason beauty rites. ‘She wears caffeine thongs, Laura. Can you believe that?’
‘Is caffeine a colour?’
‘No, it’s an impregnation.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The thongs have caffeine in them. For a youthful yoni.’
The lift opposite Laura now opened to reveal Clemency in a tight red skirt and Christopher in his usual suit and pink socks. Laura straightened up hurriedly, but too late. Clemency smiled maliciously. ‘Working hard as usual, Laura? Overseeing the office in my absence?’ She then made a big show of saying goodbye. Christopher gave Laura the faintest of nods.
Caspar, on the other end, was howling in anguish. ‘I thought Savannah and I would be together for ever!’
As the editor stalked triumphantly past, Laura leapt to her feet to follow. She was furious with herself, and with Caspar. She had just handed Clemency a copper-bottomed reason to complain about her. ‘Look,’ she muttered through gritted teeth, ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘You can’t! I want you to help me! I want you to be my girlfriend, Laura.’
She stopped in absolute amazement. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. After all the times you’ve slept with me and dumped me, the latest being only last week, what do you take me for? Be your girlfriend? That ship has sailed.’
‘Not my real girlfriend. Just a pretend one.’
‘You have,’ Laura said, after taking a deep, steadying breath, ‘completely lost me. And now I have to go. Sorry. Thank you for the kind offer, but it’s a no.’
‘Your phone keeps going,’ Karlie observed, some ten minutes later. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
Laura ignored her and cursed the malfunction – caused by the aril salad – that meant she couldn’t turn off the ringtone. This was an especially embarrassing jingly pop tune that made everyone laugh when they heard it.
‘I don’t want to be your girlfriend,’ she hissed, a few minutes later. She had shut herself in the loos to conduct this second part of the conversation.
‘But I need you!’
‘You said that before.’
‘No, I really need you now. To come to the Ivys with me.’
‘You’re up for Best Actor.’ And not without reason, Laura thought crossly. But why did he think this loverman charade would convince her yet again?
Laura had never before thought it possible to agree with Savannah Bouche. But there was clearly a first time for everything.
‘That kind of thing plays badly with the judges,’ Caspar went on. ‘They don’t like feeling manipulated.’
‘Is that right?’ But Laura’s sarcasm went straight over Caspar’s head.
‘I’m begging you! Come with me to the Ivys. Please!’
‘But there must be millions of women in Hollywood who’d bite your hand off.’
‘There are,’ Caspar agreed complacently. ‘Billions, in fact. Some of them pretty famous.’
‘So take one of them!’
‘It has to be you.’
Laura had had enough. She just wanted to get him off the phone. ‘Why me? I’m just an old friend. A complete nobody.’
‘Exactly!’ said Caspar, gleefully. ‘If I take you, a complete nobody, as opposed to someone everyone’s heard of, it makes me look sincere. Like I’m loyal. Not too proud to be seen with a person a little rough at the edges.’
Words had temporarily deserted Laura. Rough at the edges!
‘They love that in Hollywood,’ Caspar went on blithely. ‘Sincerity. Authenticity. Loyalty. That’ll go down a storm with the judges, especially if I can get a press release out before the ceremony, saying I’m coming with you and you’re from the absolute worst part of my past, complete rock bottom, when I was at my lowest.’
Laura had finally recovered the power of speech. ‘What I know, Caspar,’ she said in the calmest voice she could manage, ‘is that you can doubly, trebly, absolutely sod off. And never call me again.’
Having delivered this ultimatum she flushed the loo with violence and wrenched the cubicle door open.
When she was sufficiently composed to return to the office, Laura found Karlie sashaying towards her. ‘Clemency wants to see you. Now.’
The way to the editorial office was through a garden of bouquets stuffed in vases. There was nothing Clemency liked more than tribute, as designers and suppliers had not been slow to discover.
‘Come in. Sit down.’ Clemency’s mouth was spread in a feline smile bright with slick red lipstick. ‘On the yellow sofa, yes. Make yourself at home.’