She’d raised an eyebrow when I’d suggested going out, but had been mollified by my pointing out that the Paella would be done by the time I left, the Patatas Bravas, Tortilla and Gazpacho were already chilling in the fridge and would just need (apart from the soup) reheating, while the Artichoke and Serrano ham salad would just need assembling, dressing and serving.
“Besides,” I said, “I’ll be back long before evening, so the lunch time crowd’ll make do with olives and bread.
I arrived outside Jane Barton’s clinic just before lunchtime. The plaque on the wall advised Homeopathic remedies, Sports and Therapeutic Massages, Beauty treatments Body Wraps and Chakra alignment.
I’d been reminded, during the night of something that the Wright family lawyer had said. He’d had a thing for Kent, that couldn’t be doubted. But he’d passed over some vague concerns about Jane Barton and her controlling nature.
I remembered that she and Olivia had been friends before Olivia had met Kent. In fact it was Jane’s idea to visit Florence. “A City of Romance,” Jane had supposedly called it, and that had started me thinking: Did Jane Barton have something for Olivia? And if she did, how would she handle the introduction of an interloper? How might she react if she’d taken Olivia away on a romantic weekend, only to have the object of her desire fall in love with Kent?
How would Jane feel then? Foolish? Stupid? Betrayed? Angry?
I felt all of those things now: First Nick, and now Caz.
I wanted to lock the door, open a bottle of Calvados and dive into my own private pity party.
But I didn’t think Jane Barton did self-pity. She was a more solid woman, a woman of action. She’d not have drowned her sorrow, she would have done something.
Something like sending a poison pen letter.
I opened the door and stepped into a small reception room. To the left and right were low, beige sofas, with small smoked glass coffee tables before them. I glanced at the tables, and was unsurprised to see copies of Tatler and Vogue.
The same magazines that Caz said the letters had been cut from.
There was no receptionist behind the desk. I glanced at my watch. Lunchtime, I supposed, and was about to call out when I heard a low, but angry voice talking from the room behind the reception.
I stepped round the desk, and, keeping out of sight, leaned forward.
Jane Barton, her back to me, was seated at a desk. Her voice seemed less mumbled than normal, her posture straighter.
“You can’t treat me like this,” she said, a note of iron in her tone. She was silent a moment, listening to a voice on the other end of the phone pressed to her ear.
“Because I know,” She said. “You’d like to make me the Scottish wife here, but I know the truth, and if you think….” She paused, and sighed. “No, that’s not a threat. It’s a promise. Two words, that’s all it’ll take.” She listened again, and snorted humourlessly.
“You take care of me, or I’ll take care of you….” She laughed this time. “Oh you can’t afford to do that. Not again. You come anywhere near me, and I’ll sing like a canary.”
Another pause, then, “You know what I want. I want this done. I want this over with. You said you'd look after me. So keep your promises.”
“Excuse me!” I turned. A young woman in a white lab coat stood on the far side of the desk, a Pret A Manger bag in her hand. “What are you doing there?”
“Ah,” I smiled, extending my hand and moving back to the customer side of the desk as the receptionist took her place. “Danny Bird,” I introduced myself. “Was wondering if I could have a moment with Miss Barton.”
The girl raised an eyebrow, as though about to ask what I’d been doing eavesdropping at her boss’ door, then, seemingly deciding that a customer was a customer, tapped, instead, at a computer before her. “She’s very busy, but there might be a slot in a few days. What exactly is the issue.”
“Personal,” I smiled, “and I can’t really wait a few days. Any chance I could see her now?”
“None, I’m afraid.” She smiled, but the eyes were steely glints.
“Maybe you could mention my name,” I said. “Jane knows me.”
“What are you doing here?” Jane Barton appeared in the doorway to the office, an angry glare on her face, the hoarse mumble back in her voice.
“I wondered if I could have a word,” I said.
“Jennie?” She glanced at the girl, who spooned a forkful of salad into her mouth, tapped at the computer again, swallowed the salad, and said “Mrs Jones in half an hour.”
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” Jane said, and beckoned me into the treatment room.
I closed the door behind me and turned to her. “Look, Jane, I won't beat around the bush,” I said, “I know what’s going on, and it has to stop.”
Her face set in an impassive mask, and she dropped her frame into a chair by her desk, gesturing to me to sit in the other. “What’s going on,” she said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You, and Olivia and Kent,” I clarified. “I know how it feels to be betrayed,” I said, realising, as I said it, that what I’d felt last night with Caz had been nothing like betrayal; rather, it had been anger at the idea of her having kept secrets from me.
Childish, I realised, feeling, already, guilty for the argument that had ensued.
“Betrayed,” she laughed, “you’ve got no idea.”
“Look,” I decided to go for plain talking. “I get that you're angry. I get you want to hurt someone, but this won’t work. You won’t get what you want.”
Jane blanched. “What are you going to do?”
“That’s your choice,” I answered. “I can take this back to Olivia and Kent, who will probably take it to the police.” At this, a frightened squeak escaped her. “Or you can stop sending the letters, and I say nothing to anyone.”
Her face flushed angrily. “Stop sending the letters?”
I nodded. “Look, Jane, Olivia loves Kent. Kent loves Olivia. It won’t matter what you do, they will get married.”
Jane grunted, throwing her hands up at the same time. “Listen,” she said, “I don’t have a clue what you're talking about, but you have ten seconds to leave my office before I call the police myself. And if you so much as breathe a word of this baseless accusation, I will sue your arse for slander. Now get out!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Ali’s “Fiesta Di Paella” went off surprisingly well. I’d had time, on the journey back from Jane’s to consider whether or not I might have jumped to a conclusion about her involvement in the poison pen letters. I’d also had time to consider whether I’d been rash in arguing with Caz, and to decide that I wanted to talk to Nick; wanted to give him a chance to explain.
There was a definitely something going on with Jane Barton, though: That one-sided phone conversation had been a puzzle.
But by the time I got back, the bar was heaving, all the punters raving about the paella and the tapas dishes I’d lined up, and any thoughts I’d had of calling Caz or Nick were banished.
Ray and Dash were wearing open bolero jackets, Matadors hats, and tight shiny black speedos, into which several punters had already stuffed ten pound notes.
As I passed through the bar, I heard two of the punters debating their chances with my twin nephews.
“The one on the left. He’s so cute. I definitely would.”
His mate downed his bottle of San Migel, peered over his fake Ray Bans, and sighed. “Oh yes, for him, I’d bottom.”
“Him?” The first one brayed like a donkey. “Girl, you’d bottom for Noddy!”
I slid behind the bar and bumped into Dash. “Here, Danny,” he said, “Can we do more of these? I’ve nearly paid for me holiday tonight.’ His brother, as I watched, bent down to pick a bottle of tonic from a shelf, and several of the punters leaned so far over the bar to catch sight of his upturned arse that I feared for the structural integrity of the place.
Ray, as he strai
ghtened up, caught my eye, and wiggled his eyebrows. “Gotta keep the punters ‘appy,” he laughed, as another night’s accommodation hit the tip bowl on the bar.
“Right,” Ali – dressed as Dona Elvira, but with her beehive wig slightly askew – shoved a pair of maracas into Ray’s hand and instructed him to go shake them at the other end of the bar. “Then push the Sangria,” turned to Elaine, who was making a sulky point by wearing jeans and a t-shirt with nothing remotely Spanish about them – and ordered her to get out the back with Dash and make another batch of the afore mentioned cocktail.
“I don’t need ‘im to ‘elp,” Elaine whined.
“I bet you don’t,” Ali snapped back, “But I want the booze in the jugs, not in you. So hop to it, princess!”
Elaine scowled, and marched off, Dash following meekly.
“Ah,” Ali smirked bitterly after them, “Love’s young dream. Right, we’re running low on the Tortilla and the Patatas Bravas, and we’re completely out of the Andalusian Pork Belly. Any chance you could whip up some more?”
“Elaine, that stuff takes hours to cook,” I said, eyeing up the phone.
“So, that’ll be a ‘No,’ then,” she said. “What else you got?”
“I can do you some meatballs, some croquettes, and some Cojonudos,” I said.
Ali considered the proposal. “We’ll have the first two. I got no idea what the third is, so I doubt we’ll sell many of them. Where you going?”
I looked back over my shoulder. “I’ve just got to make a quick call.”
“Danny,” she gestured at the crowd, “This bar exists to make money. And considering every few months you seem to kill one of the staff, I’m keen to make as much as I can and get out before it’s my turn. So now would probably be a better time for the cooking and the serving than for the phoning, if you get my drift.”
Was every boss, I wondered, as cowed by his staff as I was by mine? “Fine,” I sighed, give me half an hour and the first lot should be good to go.
Next morning, before the sun was up, I called the number for Olivia Wright. The phone was answered by the butler doing, once again, his best Lurch impersonation.
“Please hold,” he said, “I shall check if Miss Wright is available.”
There was a click, and Olivia Wright came on the line. “Danny? How nice to hear from you.”
“I hope it’s not too early,” I offered, though, quite frankly, I didn’t care if it was.
“Not at all,” she giggled, “I’m just off out for a sun salutation and some Ashtanga with Jane.”
I had no idea what either of those was, but I suspected they didn’t come in a glass or a bowl, so I simply asked her when would be convenient to call round.
“Oh, I’m off out today. I’m going to be at Monica’s studios. She’s got an exhibition coming up, so we said we’d take a look and help her with the arranging. You could meet us there, if you want, I’m sure she won't mind.”
She gave me the address, we agreed a time, I hung up, and, as a thin sliver of light ran along the top of the roller blind in my room, got up and showered.
After showering, I called Caz, but the phone went to voice mail.
“Hi,” I said, “It’s me. I’m sorry about the other night. I was stupid, and childish, and I was out of order. I,” I sighed, “I miss you. It’s only been a day, but I miss having you around. I’m sorry. Please call me.”
That done, I called Nick, and listened to the phone ring three, four, five times.
Just before the sixth ring, there was a click, and the phone was answered.
“Hello.” It was a woman’s voice, husky and sleepy.
She was waking up in bed next to him. I closed my eyes and saw his face, relaxed in sleep, a scattering of freckles across his nose. Then I saw her lying next to him.
His wife.
“Hello?” She said again, a little more awake this time, and with a slight accent to her voice.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came.
“Who is there?” She asked, with a definite accent – and perhaps a little fear - this time. “Who is this?”
“Wrong number,” I said, and hung up, my heart beating faster than I’d ever known.
I took the tube to Old Street, and walked from there to Monica Vale’s studio on the edges of Shoreditch. Once, this part of the city was grubby, dirty and downright dangerous, home to the poor and the dispossessed, but today, as the sun beamed down from a sapphire blue sky, the heat bouncing back and being magnified by the office towers and the plate glass windows of the designer boutiques, it was home to yummy mummies of all descriptions, watching smilingly as their offspring devoured overpriced gelato and ran amok in what was billed as a ‘Pop up fountain,’ but which resembled, more, a fire hydrant that had been bust open and covered in a chicken wire sculpture of a giant flower.
I passed the mummies, the screaming kids, and the mandatory gang of hipsters, bearded, sunglassed, and sweating profusely in the ridiculously impractical tweeds that had been, back in January, decreed as ‘In’ this summer, and made my way to a small lane way where I found the door for Monica's studio, and rang the doorbell.
After a second ring, a deep, Germanic voice answered, I introduced myself, and, after a pause, the buzzer sounded, and I was instructed to come up to “Floor two. Not one. Two.”
Such specific instructions might have tickled me if I hadn’t been sweating, overheating and already feeling the effects of sunburn. As it was, I was met at the top of the stairs by a statuesque woman with a ‘do’ that made me wonder if, perhaps, the Khmer Rouge had gone into hairdressing. She was wearing what appeared to be a Kimono stuffed roughly into a pair of the most pleated jeans I had ever seen. If the world had ever declared a denim shortage, I suspected the repurposed fabric in this single pair might have kept the Hokkusai Denim Co. (Whose name was printed in English, French, Arabic and, I presume, Chinese, down her right leg) in raw material for several seasons.
Her hair, after the war criminal had finished hacking at it, had been dyed the sort of scarlet that my mother usually referred to as Hooker Red, and the entire effect was of a pear shaped, traumatised, time travelling Geisha. In clogs.
“I am Hildegard,” she announced in the sort of bass voice that James Earl Jones built his career on. “You will walk this way.” She spun around, muttering “Scheisse,” as - the wooden soles of the clogs providing absolutely no grip – she lost control and her feet slid in opposite directions.
She steadied herself, glared at me, and, again, said, “You will walk this way.”
She then proceeded to mince like someone who has just discovered legs or walking, along the landing, her hand flying out towards the wall several times as, I suppose, she felt her traction going and the clogs took over.
At length, we came to a door, and she grasped the handle in much the same way as the unsinkable Mollie Brown might have grabbed the hand of the sailor who hauled her out of that lifeboat, shoved the door open, announced me by bellowing my name with a degree of Teutonic fury that put me in mind of a particularly pissed off Valkyrie (in clogs), and then held the door frame for balance as I squeezed by and into the huge, bright and impossibly hot space.
At the opposite end of the room, Monica Vale, Olivia and Jane Barton were seated around a table. Between them and I was a series of paintings stood on easels. They looked, at first glance, like reproductions of old masters. Then I realised, they were actually paintings of modern subjects done in the style of the masters – a teenage girl, her septum, eyebrow and tongue displaying vivid piercings, done in the style of The Mona Lisa, a Big Issue seller painted as The Laughing Cavalier, and so on.
Jane gave me a frosty glance before turning her attention from a stack of papers spread on the table before the trio and opening a small square box before her and extracting various phials of coloured liquids.
“As a vegan,” Olivia was saying (and I had a flashback to a drunken version of her devouring mini roast beef Yorkshires) “I t
hink you need more raw food in the buffet. Hello Danny. No Caz today?”
Monica Vale smiled her vacant, gap toothed smile, and went back to inspecting the images spread out before her. I realised more than ever that Caz was – to everyone – my shadow. Or was I hers? Either way, me on my own wasn’t complete. And I missed her even more, as I mumbled some vague comment about her having something else to do this morning.
“What do you think?” Monica Vale asked, sweeping her arm at the images on the table. “The poster for my next exhibition. It’s theme is the beauty in the mundane, the joy in the everyday.”
“Alternatively,” said Kent, coming up behind me, “It’s about getting a load of chavs together and making them look pretty.”
Monica turned to him. “My subjects were people, Kent, and were treated with dignity. They’re not chavs, they’re models.”
“Yes,” he half-heartedly acknowledged, “But surely, looking at you three gathered together, the theme should be The Blasted Heath. It’s all a bit: When shall we three meet again?”
“Damn!” Jane Barton snapped as she dropped one of the phials she’d been holding up to the light. She swivelled, trying to catch it, and knocked the box over, the contents spilling out. Several of them rolled across the table and dropped to the floor.
Kent rushed over to help, and both Olivia and Monica dropped to their knees to collect the phials.
“I can handle it,” Jane snapped at him, shoving his hand to one side as he reached for a phial.
Suddenly, another cry rang out, this time more panicked and Monica Vale shot to her feet, her hand gripping her throat.
“Nobody move!” She cried. “My Locket! My locket!”
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