by Wendy Holden
Ben said: ‘Honestly, Laura? I’d say that was a little thoughtless. He was bound to feel sore about his job.’
‘And about Caspar Honeyman being your ex,’ Bill added.
‘I haven’t seen Caspar for about a year!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘Or talked to him for months!’
‘All the same, it was kind of insensitive?’
Laura stared at them. ‘Hey, you’re supposed to be my friends. You’re supposed to be on my side.’
‘We are on your side,’ Ben assured her.
‘But we love Harry too,’ said Bill. ‘He’s hot.’
‘And so is the haggis tempura,’ Ben put in, making a clumsy yet effective link as the chef in his bandana came round brandishing a plate of fried things. ‘They’re on our new canapé menu, along with deep-fried Mars Bar sorbet.’
Laura sighed. Thomasella had been right about that too. She held out her empty glass. ‘Could I have another Old Sporran? A large one, please.’
It didn’t look as if she could beat them, so she might as well join them.
Chapter Seven
‘Donald, where’s your troosers,’ slurred Laura as, much later, she staggered out of Gorblimey Trousers. She had stayed for the ceilidh band after all, or, rather, she still hadn’t left by the time they arrived. The dancing had been even wilder than expected and she had drunk so many Old Sporrans her eyes were spinning in her skull. It was a good job she only lived upstairs, although it took a while to get up them. For some reason they wouldn’t stay still.
Bill had advised a pint of water and something to eat, but Laura was beyond fixing herself either. She staggered to her bed and fell over. Lying there, she remembered Harry and her euphoria flipped instantly to depression. Where was he? How was she to find him? Laura had no idea.
Apart from one. There was someone she could call for advice. She hadn’t spoken to her grandmother Mimi in Paris for some time, and Mimi was a world expert in matters of the heart. She had over ninety years – and ninety Parisian years, at that, of experience. Laura flailed around for her phone.
The long single ringtone ground into Laura’s ear. She imagined it echoing round the tiny flat in which she had spent her childhood. In her mind she wandered through its handful of rooms; the double-doored entrance opening into a tiny kitchen with a table before the window that looked over the whole of Paris. Laura doubted there was a finer-sited aperture in the entire city. From this kitchen/diner you passed into the little sitting room, with its two long French windows, polished herringbone-pattern wood floor, marble fireplace and old red plush sofa that had converted into Laura’s bed at night.
The ringtone ground on. Where was Mimi? At this hour, normally, she would be having her night-time tisane. Surely she wouldn’t be in bed already? Laura pictured her tiny, elegant grandmother with her sharp white bob in her tiny, elegant, brightly white little bedroom with the rose-scattered quilt on the bed. Mimi slept in men’s cotton pyjamas, insisting they were more stylish than nighties.
Like the sitting room, the bedroom had French windows opening on to a tiny balcony. They faced over the Montmartre square, with its trees, cobbles, benches and the entrance to the Metro. As a child, this had always seemed to her like a giant mouth with people walking in and out of it.
‘Allo?’ The other end had picked up.
‘Mimi! C’est moi!’ Laura’s flood of relief was mixed with concern. ‘Have you been asleep?’ she asked sheepishly.
‘Mais non! I was just out with Ernest, Ginette and Evelyne.’
These were her grandmother’s closest friends, ancient Parisians like herself, and like Mimi, denizens of Montmartre the whole of their lives. It had seemed to Laura, growing up amongst them, that none of them would ever leave Paris. But in recent years they had been bitten by a late-onset travel bug and now spent practically the whole time cruising. The most recent one had been down the Rhine, on a boat which had its own spa. Ernest, an ancient transvestite, had enjoyed this even more than the women.
‘Planning your latest trip?’ Laura asked.
‘Exactement. We’re considering Palm Springs.’
‘But it’s June,’ Laura pointed out. ‘Won’t it be very hot?’
‘Oui, but also be very empty, for that reason. And the rentals very cheap. Also it is very handy for Coachella.’
Laura screwed up her eyes. ‘You mean the festival?’
‘Absolutement I mean the festival.’
‘But…’ Was she really hearing this? The elderly French foursome were planning a trip – and she used the word advisedly – to the most fashionable youth gathering on the planet?
‘Beyoncé is headlining,’ Mimi went on. ‘We must go and support our fellow countrywoman.’
‘I don’t think Beyoncé’s actually French, Mimi.’
This was all so distracting that only now did Laura remember what she had actually called about. Mimi listened in silence. ‘So he has gone, chérie,’ she said soberly. It was less a question, more a statement of fact.
‘Yes, Mimi!’ wailed Laura. ‘And I want you to tell me how to make him come back!’
The other end was quiet. Laura could practically hear her grandmother rummaging through her mental index, that repository of life wisdom in which she had dug so deep and so often on her granddaughter’s behalf. The advice she had handed out to Laura through the years had covered everything from hair care to cut flowers to maintaining one’s figure. ‘To give your hair that extra shine, pour white wine vinegar over it and rinse; aspirin in the water makes your roses live longer; spray your breasts with cold water at the end of your shower.’
Laura listened eagerly for what Mimi would now have to tell her about Harry. Her advice on love was always original.
‘If you love someone,’ her grandmother began, ‘you have to let them go. If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, they were never yours in the first place.’
Laura, eyes closed, was musing on this. Then her eyes snapped open. The quote was familiar. ‘I’m sure I’ve read that on a cheesy postcard,’ she accused.
‘Peut-être. But I can’t think of anything better. Not at this time of night, chérie.’
Laura looked guilty at the time on her phone. It was past midnight in Paris. She wished her grandmother goodnight, and fell into an uneasy, thirsty doze.
Some hours later she awoke again. It was still dark – or as dark as it got in the inner city – but her phone was ringing. Laura rolled over, groaning, The unmistakeable signs of a hangover were all there. Her head felt tight and her mouth like a cat litter tray.
She was clutching something to her – the boxer shorts, she realised – and rummaged in the duvet with the other. She could see the phone, lit up beneath the cover, like something underwater. Harry!
Mimi – or the cheesy postcard – was right. He had returned to her!
It was not Harry, however. Familiar, exciteable tones dinned in her ear. ‘Caspar?’ muttered Laura. ‘What the f— Why are you ringing at this time?’
She raised herself on to her elbow. As she had explained to Ben earlier in the evening, her film star friend hadn’t been in touch for months. Had he somehow, through the ether, detected that she had been defending his honour and it had cost her the man she loved? Was he channelling her misery and ringing to console her?
‘It’s really sweet of you,’ she began. ‘And I appreciate it. I could do with some support just now—’
‘Oh God, Laura!’ roared the other end. Caspar sounded as if flames were being held to his feet.
Given her caller’s hysterical state, and her own post-ceilidh one, establishing the facts took a while. Gradually, between rants, she got the story. Margo, Caspar’s latest girlfriend, had dispensed with his services.
She waited to get a word in edgeways. ‘Yes, I know exactly how you feel because—’
Caspar wasn’t listening, however. As usual, it was all about him. Laura decided she couldn’t spend all night commiserating. It was late, or rather early, and she had w
ork in just a few hours.
‘Look, I’m sorry. But it was good while it lasted, no?’ She spoke briskly. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea. You’re one of the most eligible men in Hollywood.’
‘But for how long?’ Caspar’s shouting, albeit from 3000 miles away, was giving her a migraine on top of her hangover.
‘What do you mean? Being dumped’s not going to affect you. You’re James Bond. They can’t get rid of you.’
‘They might! They only just started Moscow Mule. None of my scenes have been filmed yet. They can easily stick someone else in. Idris Elba, Aidan Turner – any of those guys.’
Laura gasped softly. Aidan Turner. If he got the part… But this was disloyal.
‘I don’t see why you’re worrying so much,’ she told Caspar. ‘Your relationship has run its course, that’s all.’
‘Not quite all.’ He began to rant again. As she pieced together what he was saying, a chill slid down Laura’s spine.
‘She’s accused you of what? She’s told everybody what?’
Gibber, gibber from Caspar’s end.
‘Because you bought her what? Speak slowly.’
‘French lingerie. Like, a bra and thong. The kind of thing you look hot in, Laura.’
This reminder of their former intimacy reared up like a bump in the road. Laura was unprepared for the shaft of remembered desire. She swerved it. This was not about them. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ she asked, genuinely mystified.
‘Like I said. She says I’m objecting to her.’
‘You mean objectifying her?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Sexual advances.’
Caspar obviously meant ‘sexual harassment’. But this was way over the top, surely. Laura knew what it was like to be in a relationship with Caspar. He was thoughtless and selfish, but he was not a predator. Nor did he ever behave in a threatening manner. He would never force a woman to have sex. Somewhere along the line there’d been a misunderstanding.
‘It’s completely unfair of her to say these things about you,’ Laura said loyally.
Hollow laughter. ‘Since when has that stopped anyone in Hollywood? Think of what Savannah said about me.’
Caspar’s relationship with Savannah Bouche had come to an abrupt end after she had publicly derided the size of his penis. Sex always brought Caspar down in the end, Laura reflected. ‘But this is completely different,’ she argued. ‘Savannah was a self-publicising monster.’
‘And your point is?’
Laura’s head was whirling and her stomach felt like a sea in a storm. She needed to get to the bathroom, fast. She was sure Caspar had the wrong end of the stick. It was, she had discovered to her cost over the years, impossible to overestimate just how astonishingly thick he was. ‘Look, no one’s going to believe you did anything wrong. They’ll defend you.’
‘The hell they will!’ screamed the other end. ‘They’ll all start piling in. It’ll be Hashtag Creepy Caspar. Loads of women I haven’t even met will say I touched them inappropriately.’
Laura had had enough. Who the hell did Caspar think he was, ringing at this hour to harangue her? Was it her fault?
‘You’re completely overreacting!’ she shouted back. ‘No one’s going to do anything like that.’
The subsequent silence was so long Laura thought he might have hung up. Then, in a small voice, ‘You don’t think so?’
‘Of course not. It all seems worse because it’s the middle of the night.’
‘But it’s not the middle of the night. It’s 7.00 p.m.’
‘There, maybe,’ Laura snapped. ‘It’s 3.00 a.m. here, thanks.’
Another silence. Then: ‘Don’t be nasty to me,’ Caspar said in a small voice. ‘I’m having a hard time.’
So am I! Laura wanted to shout. But it would be no use. When it came to other people’s problems, Caspar had filters on his ears. She felt a wave of affection for him, even so. The kind of affection one might feel for a dozy, accident-prone but nonetheless rather loveable dog.
‘Look, I’m your friend, Caspar. Always remember that. And it’ll all be fine.’
‘Do you really think so? Really really? Pinky promise?’ He sounded so needy, she thought. Like a lost little boy.
‘Pinky promise.’ And she meant it. Caspar was no lost little boy; far from it. He was at the very top of the Hollywood tree. He led a fantastic life in his Malibu mansion complete with Egyptian antiquities, Aubusson tapestries and an English butler called Haddock. His life was a constant round of red-carpet events, one of which he’d taken Laura to, the unforgettable, star-studded Ivy Awards. There had been a dramatic mix-up with the winners’ envelopes but all had been well in the end. Caspar had left – in an ambulance, unfortunately – with one of the prestigious statuettes.
Caspar, on the other end, seemed to making another call. She could hear the buttons on another keyboard. He had the attention span of a goldfish, but she took this as a good sign; he’d stopped panicking.
‘Look, whatever happens, you can rely on me,’ she soothed. ‘I’ll always help you.’ She had a feeling he wasn’t listening. ‘Caspar? Can you hear me?’ Her voice seemed to echo back to her. Had he put her on speakerphone?
Chapter Eight
Laura couldn’t get back to sleep after that and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning. She was quite sure Caspar had nothing to worry about. But where was Harry and what was he doing?
Too late now to recall the old adage about being careful what you wish for. She’d thought Harry was under her feet, that familiarity was breeding contempt, but now she was forcibly reminded of the misery of his absence.
She’d been selective and romantic about what their relationship used to be like. She’d chosen to forget how, when Harry had been away on his assignments, miserable weeks and weeks could pass without any contact at all. She’d entirely blanked out how she had filled the communications void with the most dreadful images: Harry dead in a ditch in some hot, violent land; Harry tied to a chair in a concrete basement. She had no idea what to think now. While theoretically in London, Harry could be anywhere.
When Olly, the high-end milkman, rattled his bottles in the early hours, and the first foragers greeted him on their way to the park, it suddenly and overpoweringly reminded Laura of a scene in the first opera Harry had taken her to. La bohème, at glamorous, gold-and-white Covent Garden. She could remember every detail, the heart-bursting music, the beautiful set, the head-spinning romance of it all. The champagne bar, too, where Harry had splashed out on a whole bottle of Ruinart.
As the light strengthened over London, Laura lay on her side, knees drawn to her chin, sobbing in utter misery.
The Tube into work was beset with problems, and more smelly people even than usual. She was unable even to check the newspaper websites on her smartphone, as per her usual habit, but possibly this was a blessing. Her hangover banged on in her head and trying to read small words onscreen would have made her feel even worse.
There was one thing to look forward to though: lunch. While Laura looked forward to this every day – like every Frenchwoman, she was obsessed with food – today’s additional treat was that she was seeing her close friend Lulu.
When Laura had first met Lulu she had been an international billionheiress party girl at the heart of the London social scene. These days she led a somewhat contradictory life – married to a rapper and living in rural bliss – and came up fairly rarely to town. Given Laura’s problems, she couldn’t have picked a better day than today. Even if she could have picked a better restaurant.
‘Is new place, hmm?’ Lulu had said when ringing to arrange it.
Laura had immediately been on her guard. She might live mostly in the country at the moment, but Lulu had maintained her insatiable interest in fashion. And as she was still a social name to conjure with, as well as immensely rich, she remained the target of every PR in London with a launch to promote.
‘What’s it called?’ Laura asked. Over the years, they had bee
n to some strange places together.
‘Is called Steam Room.’ Lulu’s voice, in which many accents and languages fought for dominance, had been described as being like the well-trodden carpet of an international first-class lounge.
Laura decided that Steam Room sounded reasonably straightforward. Hopefully you could get some of those wonderful English steamed puddings there – jam roly-poly and the like. With custard.
Reaching the office at last, and taking the lift to Society’s floor, Laura wondered what news Lulu would bring from Great Hording, the extremely smart seaside settlement where she lived with her husband South’n Fried and his extensive collection of trainers.
Great Hording was otherwise known as Britain’s Poshest Village. Laura’s story revealing its existence as the super-secret bolthole of the elite had been a sensation. But of course, as Bev Sweet was now making only too clear, you were only as good as your last sensation and your next sensation was only of interest if it attracted plenty of advertising.
Laura forcibly turned her thoughts from the dreaded CEO and back to the more life-enhancing Lulu. It was unexpected that she had taken a shine to rustic life. But then, Lulu took a shine to everything. Literally. Her typical country outfit was silver wellies and a gold Puffa. Laura smiled. It would be good to see her.
The smile disappeared instantly once she reached the office. The newspapers she had been unable to check online were spread out on her desk. Their headlines seared into Laura’s eyeballs and clanged around her brain. She had been wrong, so wrong.
BOND-AGE
007 Actor In Sex Shame
BOND BANNED
Sex Shame Actor Axed
I’M SHAKEN AND STIRRED
Hollywood Star’s Honeyman Trauma
Laura groaned. Caspar had been spot on. There really was a campaign called #creepycaspar in which people were queuing up to share stories. It was like a bad dream.
Poor Caspar. She stared at her phone. Should she call him? The thought made her shrink inside. She had assured him it would all be fine.