Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  Because I don’t want to come across as suspicious, though I am, I keep my voice light and breezy. By contrast, Vera’s is flat and tired. “No, this is a good time. What’s up?”

  “I’m wondering if you know what my summons from Jed is about? He wants to buy me champagne, which is always a worry.” I force a laugh.

  “He and Rex were here most of the day yesterday.” Vera hesitates. “I don’t want to make you worry unnecessarily.”

  “You realize you saying that makes me worry more?” I cross my arms over my chest as a gust of wind breezes through my sweater. I took Donna’s anorak off when I returned the bike to its shed because I was sweating like a pig, but I miss it now.

  “They were running figures and I pulled a lot of client files for them.” I can’t see her, but I’m pretty sure Vera shrugs. “It may be nothing.”

  “But you think otherwise?” Asking for insight from my twenty-two-year-old assistant isn’t my first choice, but she’s pretty savvy. Also, since she’s there and I’m not, I don’t really have a choice.

  “It feels odd, you know? Like I should be updating my CV, maybe?”

  “Oh, God. It won’t come to that.” I hope. But Vera’s smart and this feels odd to me, too. Aloud, I say, “I’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise, so don’t start job searching yet.”

  “I won’t, don’t worry.” Vera hesitates, then says. “I just don’t want to be caught off guard, you know?”

  I do know. There’s a lot to be said for job stability. It’s one of the things that’s kept me at Tompkins Payne Cooper all these years. Well, that and my non-compete clause. Legally I’m not allowed to work for a firm in the same industry for a year after leaving TPC, unless my leaving is by mutual agreement.

  “I swear I’ll let you know as soon as I know what’s really going on.” I take a deep breath and smile to reflect it in my voice. “So, what else is going on?”

  Vera gives me a five-minute run down of some of the other phone calls she’s taken and reminds me about an email she’s flagged for me, but there’s nothing really of note. Which worries me a little as I walk back into the pub. Besides Alastair, there are no other accounts I’m currently working on that can’t be easily taken over by someone else. Jessica Martin has been dealt with – by Rex. The debut author has also been wined and dined by Rex. Which leaves me with a reluctant not-even-close-to-star-status rocker.

  “Your lunch will be out in a minute, lovely. Where would you like to sit?” Amy calls out, pulling me away from the mental inventory I’m doing.

  There are a couple of old men playing dominos at the table closest to the bar and a group of women sharing a bottle of wine at a table on the side. I try to remember the last time I had a meal out that wasn’t work related and I’m sure that’s the reason I say, “Is it okay if I sit at the bar?”

  “Of course, it is.” Amy sets down a paper placement and silverware as I slip onto a stool. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Can I have a lemonade, please?” Amy nods and as she sets it down in front of me, I say, “You know when I first moved here, I hated UK lemonade.”

  “How does someone hate lemonade?”

  “Because American lemonade is what you call cloudy lemonade here. When I first tried yours and it was fizzy I nearly spit it out across the table.” Amy laughs and I do, too. “Of course, we also have a love affair with iced tea, so maybe it evens out.”

  “I hope you’ve come around to British tea or I might have to ask you to leave,” Amy says.

  I nod as Donna slips a plate in front of me from the right. “I have, although I still like sugar in my tea as a treat sometimes.”

  Amy lowers her voice and says, “Don’t tell my mum, but so do I. She thinks sugar in tea is for kids and you should outgrow it by the time you get to uni. Of course, she has a point because you have no money in uni and sugar is one more thing you have to buy unless you can wean yourself off of it.”

  I want to ask Amy where she went to uni and what she studied, but one of the women drinking wine pops up at the end of the bar and she goes down to see what she wants. I study my plate – cheese, ham, relish, crusty bread, coleslaw, and some unidentifiable brown thing – and my stomach roars its approval, despite my head inventorying all the things on the plate I don’t normally eat. Cheese. Deli meat. Mayonnaise. Bread. But screw it. Confronted with actual food, I’m starving to the point where not eating this would probably cause me physical pain. Maybe it’s the cycling because I hardly ever eat lunch in London. Then again, I’m usually working. Here, with Alastair as my sole focus, I have nothing to do until he gets back to me.

  If he gets back to me. For all I know, he’s actually not playing hard to get. Maybe he’s not playing at all.

  The bread scrapes my tongue and I try to swallow, but I can’t because suddenly my mouth is as dry as New York in the month of July. Alastair has to get back to me. If he doesn’t, I’ll need to pay him another visit, Ziggy be damned. Because the truth is, I have nothing on my plate unless I’m working with Alastair and I don’t want to meet Jed empty-handed on Friday. I don’t know why he wants to meet with me, but showing up without progress to report feels like a terrible idea. This week more than ever.

  Chapter Eleven

  Per Amy’s suggestion, after I finish lunch I grab my laptop from my room and set up at the bar for the afternoon. Once the wine-drinking ladies leave, it’s only me, Amy, and the old men playing dominos, and I’m deep in concentration looking through my files when the door swings open and Donna comes out from the kitchen.

  “Hey, love. Did you find what you were looking for this morning?” Donna calls.

  My head jerks up and, I can’t help noticing, so does Amy’s, which makes me clench my knees together a little. Amy’s been friendly, but I have a feeling that would change if she knew I went to find Alastair this morning. To Donna I nod and say, “Yes, thank you. It’s lovely around here.”

  “Where did you go?” Amy asks. Is that a hint of a challenge in her tone or am I imagining it? I’m not keeping my whereabouts a secret exactly, but Amy could accuse me of lying by omission and she’d be right.

  “Amy, do you know if we got the sausages yet? I rang the butcher to ask him for a couple dozen extra and if we’ve not got them yet, I’ll pop around and pick them up myself.” Donna lets out a small huff. “You know what they say. If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.”

  “He’s not been by, so you should probably get them,” Amy says, walking over while drying her hands on a towel.

  “Okay. Will be back in a jiff.” Donna turns towards the door and barrels out.

  Amy waits until the door closes before turning back to me. “So?”

  I don’t need to answer to her and I’m more than a little resentful she thinks I do. On the other hand, I have a feeling she has way more sway with Alastair than I do at the minute and if she tells him I was a bitch, there goes that. I weigh my options for all of two seconds before I tell her the truth. “I cycled up to see Alastair Wells.”

  Amy raises her eyebrows. “And how did that go?”

  “Not very well.” Two for two on the honesty scale. I’m not sure but I think Amy is surprised. Maybe impressed.

  “So you didn’t get what you were after?”

  “Not even close.” There’s no need to tell Amy that I got way more than I bargained for in lots of ways. But maybe that’s something Amy would understand. Before I can second guess myself, I ask, “Are you and Alastair…? Or were you…?”

  “A couple? No.” Amy rolls her eyes, which I’m pretty sure is at my inability to say the word girlfriend. “Not for lack of interest on my part at first, although I’m over it now. He’s a friend.”

  “I wasn’t trying to pry.” I totally was. “I just wondered.”

  “Were you and Alastair a couple?” Amy’s gaze is as direct as her words.

  “A long time ago, yes. But seeing him now is strictly business.” And if I appreciate how good he looks,
well, that’s useful for promotional purposes, right?

  “Are you his agent?”

  Unless she stayed at Alastair’s house, the only place Moira could have stayed is the Swan with Two Necks if she ever came to visit. And if Amy doesn’t know her, she hasn’t. Which means Alastair has gone to London to see her. I file that little tidbit away and say, “No. I’m a publicist trying to raise Alastair’s profile for a potential opportunity his agent has on the table.”

  “Good luck.” Amy rolls her eyes. “He wants to be one of those George R. R. Martin types – a hermit releasing his art into the world to his adoring masses.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Uh, it doesn’t exactly work that way.”

  “I know, right? I mean, shooting a new video would be better than what he’s doing. But he thinks music videos are crass.” Amy narrows her eyes. “We’ve had this conversation and that was his word, not mine. The ones he did in the past have all disappeared, so I said let’s do something simple. I could shoot some footage of him walking through a field and leaning on a fence post then superimpose the music over it, but he wasn’t having it.”

  “Wait. Do you produce video?” I furrow my brow, but I don’t think it hides the way my brain has kicked into high gear.

  “I went to uni for psychology, but managed to sneak in a load of cinematography courses on the side. My dream was to work for the BBC. I had an internship with them and a good foot in the door, too.” Amy sighs. “Then my dad died and my mum needed help running the pub. My brother lives in America and he wasn’t going to come home, so it was up to me.”

  “Wow.” I want to say how unfair that is, but I’m pretty sure Amy knows that. Instead I say, “How long ago was that?”

  “It’s been long enough that I wouldn’t qualify for a new grad scheme anymore. Let’s leave it at that.” Amy’s tone turns flat, but in the next breath she says, “But I still film when I can and think I could make a kickass music video if Alastair would let me.”

  I have at least twenty contacts I could get to shoot me a music video, but I doubt any of them will get the response from Alastair that I think Amy will. Still, I don’t want to buy before trying, so I say, “Do you have anything I could take a look at?”

  Amy’s eyes widen. “Sure. Yes. I mean, what do you want to see? I’ve got a couple of short films up on Vaze.”

  “Viewing Haze.” I smile. “I got on there for the first time about three weeks ago. I really liked the work I saw.”

  “It’s fab because it’s a collective and they feature different artists every day, which helps with discoverability. You don’t have to have a zillion followers to be trending. One of my friends was trending the other day and she went from less than a thousand followers to over ten thousand overnight.” Amy grins. “And she got an email from a producer who saw her work.”

  “That’s a dream come true.” I make a mental note to spend more time on Vaze. Maybe it will help me up my game client-wise.

  “I’m happy to pull up my stuff if you want to take a look.” Amy’s smile turns shy as she points to my laptop.

  I slide it across the bar. “I want to take a look, so yes, please.”

  She bites her lip as her fingers fly over the keys then slides the laptop back to me. “I should preface by saying – ”

  “No. No prefacing. Let’s pretend I’m someone finding you blind here.” I don’t give Amy a chance to answer before turning my attention to the screen, but I see her hovering out of the corner of my eye, so I say, “I deal with enough artists to know that trying to get a read on someone while they’re viewing your work is really hard and anxiety-inducing.”

  “In other words, go have a fag break or something?” Amy’s smile is strained.

  “Or something.” This time when I turn my attention back to the screen, I keep it there and press play on the video loaded on the screen. I’m vaguely aware that Amy walks to the other end of the bar, but my focus is on her work now.

  The video is well-shot. I can’t hear the voices very well because my volume is turned down, but I’m not critiquing the story. My sole focus is the cinematography, which is good. It’s not flawless, but the jumpiness in one scene seems to have more to do with the actor’s jerky movements than Amy’s use of the camera. For all I know it could be part of the story.

  I dig my headphones out of my bag and plug them in, rewinding the video as I do it. Now I can hear and appreciate the total package. The actors aren’t great– it was probably better without the sound – but if Amy wrote and directed this herself? I don’t let myself finish that thought. I need to find out, of course, but there won’t be any writing involved. Just directing and camera work. I suppose I could codirect if we had a firm storyboard.

  Not that Alastair would agree to that. Even if he agrees to Amy doing a video, he’s not going to agree to my involvement. Of course, his anti-video stance was before Luanna Parker came calling. He might have changed his mind and is too proud to approach Amy again. In which case…

  I slip the headphones out of my ears and half-close the lid to my laptop. Amy’s gaze is trained on me and she takes a few hesitant steps my way. I wait until she’s close enough so I don’t have to shout before I say, “So, how do you think we can convince Alastair Wells to shoot a music video?”

  Chapter Twelve

  The second step in convincing Alastair to shoot a music video is making it seem like it’s all his idea. Which is human nature 101 and not unique to Alastair Wells by a long shot. The first step is recording him without his knowledge at a gig he’s doing tonight in Glenhurst. This is all Amy’s idea, and though I’m not really on board, I’m also technically not the one doing the recording, which lets me off the hook a little bit.

  It helps that the Crooked Fish is packed when we arrive. Our cab drops us off at the door and we join the end of the line, which is at least thirty people long and growing. I peered through the door on our way past and all I could see were bodies, so the odds of Alastair seeing us should be slim.

  Except.

  Amy has her camera with her to shoot proper video. Her words, not mine. Assuming we make it past the bag check, the camera won’t be difficult to see in a sea of smart phones aimed at the stage. Especially with her holding it above her head to get an unobstructed view.

  “I can almost see Alastair stopping the show until you put your camera away,” I say as we shuffle up in the line. The guy ahead of us is smoking and I scrunch my nose up at the smell. The sooner we’re in – and out – of here, the better.

  “I’ve recorded him before. It will be fine.” Amy looks stunning in a short black skirt, chunky sandals, and a silky pink camisole top. She’s also wearing a black jacket, but that won’t last once we’re inside.

  In contrast, I brought zero going-out clothes – although in this context I don’t know what that means since my going out is usually client related – and it doesn’t matter what I wear. And okay, this is client related, too, but I still wish I’d been able to do a little better than jeans, ballerina flats, and my camel twinset. It’s a lame look for a club, but it was either that or ask Amy if I could borrow something and that felt even more lame.

  “Why did you record him before?” I ask.

  “I was making a video for a contest. The winner got to go to Florida for spring break.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Have you ever been to Florida for spring break?”

  “No, but I’ve seen it on Vaze and some old footage from MTV. It looked really fun. Is it not?”

  “It can be. It’s kind of like Ibiza but less cool?” Not that I’ve been to either, but Ibiza versus Panama City? No contest.

  “Did you ever go to spring break?” Amy asks.

  “Yes, but not to Florida.” I persuaded Alastair to drive to Maine with me instead. It was the opposite of Florida in every way – including the fact that it was only the two of us in my Aunt Lauren’s guest house – but it was hot, even though the temperature barely topped fifty. Way hotter than if we’d gone to
Florida with my friends. To Amy I say, “I’ve been to Florida since and aside from Miami it’s kind of overrated.”

  “Easy for you to say when you’ve been there.” Amy looks like she’s going to say more but the bouncer at the door is asking for ID and rummaging in her bag. He takes the camera out and turns it over, then hands it back to her with a shrug, gesturing for her to head inside.

  When it’s my turn, he barely glances at my ID and waves me in. I’d be offended if I didn’t already know how unimpressive my look is. I’ve just stepped inside and am scanning the crowd for Amy when my phone buzzes from my back pocket. I pull it out, half expecting Vera or Rex. Instead it’s from an unknown number and says: I’ve thought about your offer. Willing to discuss. I’ll meet you at the Swan at ten tomorrow morning.

  Alastair. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out, but I’m shocked he’s come around so quickly. So much for playing hard to get. I’d envisioned at least one more session of serious cajoling. Maybe being back in London before he agreed. Reluctantly. After more serious cajoling. It makes me wonder what’s happened to change his mind.

  Or who’s changed his mind, because I can’t get the domestic scene from earlier out of my head. Maybe his wife/girlfriend/significant other came home and told him he was crazy for passing up this opportunity. Part of me wants to thank her for making my job easier. The other part of me…

  “Should we try to work our way up to the stage?” Amy shouts in my ear, holding a drink out to me. “I got you a gin and tonic.”

  “Thank you. And yes, let’s get close, but not too close?” I shout in return.

  Amy starts weaving her way through the crowd and I let myself take in the club itself. It’s a pretty standard B-level club, meaning there’s a raised stage, but no seating and no amenities. It’s the kind of club most of my current clients play on a whim, but no one can make a serious career in playing venues like this. Including Alastair.