by Cassie Hamer
Ben saluted and disappeared into the crowd, while Jamie moved on to checking the lighting. Two minutes later, Ben was back and breathless.
‘They’re all fine with it, except the guy who plays the rain shaker thing.’
‘What’s his problem?’
‘He’s on Jenny Craig.’
‘Jenny Craig?’ Jamie’s mind boggled and an image of a chubby guy rattling a shaker came into her head. In her mind, the shaker and tummy wobbled in unison. It wasn’t pretty. Jamie tapped her foot. ‘The rain shaker guy just plays at the start and finish and kind of bobs around while the drummers do their thing.’
Ben nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s pretty basic. Anyone could do it.’
‘Anyone could do it,’ said Jamie slowly, a smile spreading across her face.
‘No, no.’ Ben started backing away. ‘You can’t make me.’
‘But I can,’ said a familiar voice.
Jamie whipped around to find Angel, looking like a magnificent cassowary in a royal blue-and-black kaftan from Nala’s collection.
‘Angel,’ said Jamie, flustered. ‘I thought you’d already been seated.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, it’s such a bore out there. Much more exciting here, behind the scenes with all the beautiful people.’ Angel raised her eyebrows at one of the passing, shirtless drummers. ‘And, of course, I wanted to make sure everything’s going to be 100 per cent perfect.’ Her gaze narrowed on Jamie.
‘It certainly is,’ chimed Ben. ‘Jamie has everything sorted.’
‘Of course you do,’ cried Angel. ‘Mwah, mwah.’ She kissed the air between Jamie and Ben. ‘Toodle-oo! See you on the other side.’
They waited till she’d wafted into the distance before speaking.
‘She scares me sometimes,’ said Jamie, staring after her boss and half-expecting her to magically reappear at her side.
‘She scares me all the time,’ said Ben, wandering away and untucking his shirt.
‘Where are you going?’ called Jamie.
‘To get changed of course.’ He gestured to his navy suit. ‘I like to get a little more comfortable when I’m African drumming.’
Jamie laughed as the director bawled in her ear. Places NOW, everyone. Five fucking minutes till showtime.
The show was a blur. For most of it, Jamie stayed by Nala’s side but the young woman was in a zone of her own, flouncing skirts, straightening collars and rolling sleeves with such studious determination that Jamie didn’t dare interrupt. If backstage was a cyclone of women getting furiously dressed and undressed (worse than a Gucci sample sale) then Nala was the eye of the storm—calm and serene. So under control was she that Jamie at one point left her side to peek from the wings at the audience. So many open mouths, it was like being at a dentists’ convention. From the minute Ben kicked off the show with a shake of the rainmaker, the audience was hooked. It was like a musical waterfall that quickly gave way to a thumping African beat, taking the crowd from delight to unbridled energy. The beat was primal. Exhilarating. Jaded was a fashion trend that this crowd wore well, but as the drummers threaded their way through the seats, chests rippling under the effort of pounding their instruments, every single black-clad figure in the audience sat up straighter. Feet tapped. Hands clapped. The crowd was in the palm of Nala’s hand—and not a single garment had hit the runway.
As the drummers subsided, the DJ’s driving electronica beat took over and the first model hit the catwalk, striding out in a glorious chiffon dress, patterned in earth tones of burnt orange and deep auburn. So light and airy was the material that the model appeared to float down the runway, like a falling autumn leaf.
The applause thundered.
Applause for the first frigging dress.
It was unheard of, and as Jamie had gone to squeeze Nala’s shoulders in congratulations, she’d stopped. The young woman hadn’t seen any of it, too focused was she on the next model and the one after that, and the one after that. She would watch it back later, Jamie reasoned, leaving her be.
The show was nearly over now. The DJ had switched the music into an up-tempo party groove and the models were pulling on swimsuits, preparing for their final pass.
Jamie held her breath. The finale was the most technically complex part of the show, requiring the models to walk through a wall of water. It had worked well in rehearsal—water had fallen on cue like a spontaneous rain shower. But none of the models had actually walked through it—wet hair and streaky mascara one hour before the show would have sent the make-up artists into a meltdown.
The waterfall was a risk. A huge risk.
And cue the water, said the director in Jamie’s earpiece.
Nothing. Not a single drop. Dry as a drought.
Make it fucking rain. NOW! he roared.
And the heavens opened.
Barefoot and bikini-clad, the models loosened for the final pass, dancing down the runway and then luxuriating in the water for a second, before flicking their hair (stray droplets hitting the front row) and slinking their way back, skin glistening as if they’d been coated with diamond dust. Backstage, the girls whooped and hollered as they dived for the towels.
The parade was done but there was one thing left to do.
Jamie pushed Nala into the wings. ‘Go, go. It’s your turn.’
Stunned by the spotlights, the young woman covered her eyes and squinted into the light. The crowd erupted and Nala skipped to the end of the runway, kicking at the puddles like an excited kid.
Jamie scoured the crowd. There was Angel, beaming. The editor of Vogue, shouting Bravo. Even the cranky editor of Shopping Madness was stamping her feet.
Jamie exhaled and felt arms encircling her waist and lifting her into the air.
‘You did it.’ Ben twirled her around and pulled her in tightly for a hug. He was still shirtless, his muscles warm and firm beneath Jamie’s hands.
‘That was amazing,’ he whispered into her ear, tickling her cheek with his breath. ‘You’re amazing.’
Jamie drew back and then moved in again to kiss him full on the mouth. A firm kiss. Lips pressed together. She broke away.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jamie began, shaking her head. ‘We can’t do this. I’m getting married in—’
‘I don’t care.’ Ben pulled her back in and this time the kiss was soft and tender. Their tongues met and Jamie felt desire, cresting like a wave within her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and Ben pressed into her.
‘Ooh I say, I thought the runway show was fabulous, but like I say, the real fun always happens backstage.’ Angel stood with her hands on her hips and winked as Ben and Jamie sprang apart. ‘Come here, my darlings. Aunty Angel is so, so proud of you.’ She wrapped Ben and Jamie in a hug, her germ-phobia momentarily forgotten. ‘You two are a wonderful team.’
Finally, the three-way hug ended, but the trio remained holding hands and grinning like idiots at each other. Then, Angel reached into the swathes of her caftan and produced two business cards.
‘These—’ she stopped for dramatic effect and held them aloft ‘—are for you, my dear.’
Angel handed over the cards and Jamie quickly scanned them.
On the first was the Spin Cycle logo. Jamie Travvers, Spin Cycle, Managing Director.
The second bore a logo she didn’t recognise.
Issam Al Mazouri, Chief Executive Officer, Dubai Corporation for Tourism and Commerce Marketing.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Jamie.
Angel put her arm around Jamie’s shoulder and leant in to whisper in her ear. ‘I’m giving you a choice, my dear. Stay or go. You have my blessing for either.’
A choice. That must have meant she passed the test with flying colours!
Jamie hugged her boss and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you, Angel.’
‘Is there room for one more or is this a Spin-employees-only affair?’ Jamie felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to face Jared, smiling widely at her. She winced at the word ‘affair’.
‘Great sh
ow, babe.’ Jared pulled her in for a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. ‘Very proud of you.’
‘You came,’ she said lamely, suddenly remembering that she’d casually mentioned the show to him before he’d left for work.
‘Of course I did. Couldn’t miss the last big shebang, could I?’ He smiled easily at her. Ever since the Melissa debacle, Jared had been on his best behaviour. When Jamie had confessed to tracking her down, he hadn’t been angry like she thought he might be. Instead, he was relieved and almost wistful.
‘How did she seem, when you saw her?’ he’d asked.
‘She seems happy,’ Jamie had told him. ‘She’s obviously great at what she does and she’s an absolute natural with the kids …’ She trailed off, unsure what to say next.
‘But what?’
Jamie sighed. ‘I think she’s sad that she hasn’t had a child.’
Jared had nodded and for the rest of the night was uncharacteristically quiet. He didn’t even check his phone. Not even once.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ he’d whispered to her in bed, before rolling away. But Jamie had lain awake for hours, mulling over the events of the day and Jared’s odd reaction.
She had accepted his apology. What choice did she have? Ellie was not his child. There was no child. They were free to marry, no strings attached. But what she hadn’t anticipated was his sense of disappointment. Anger that she had gone behind his back, she could understand. Relief that there was no child could also be expected. But not this sad disappointment, this sense that he was not really sorry for having withheld such material information from Jamie, but extremely sorry over the way he’d treated Melissa and her pregnancy all those years ago.
With models and photographers still milling about, Jared took Jamie’s hand. ‘Let me take you out for dinner, to celebrate.’
‘That’s my job, isn’t it?’ Angel protested, taking her other hand.
‘As much as I would love to take you both up on your offers, I actually already have an appointment to go to.’ Jamie squeezed both their hands. ‘I’m sorry.’ She’d have to tell Jared about Angel’s generous offer later.
‘What could possibly be more important than celebrating the hottest show of Fashion Week with your boss, your fiancé, and of course your darling assistant.’ The way Angel winked as she emphasised the words made Jamie feel queasy. The woman was incorrigible.
‘Oh, it’s just the hairdresser.’ Jamie tried to sound nonchalant. ‘But I’ve already put it off twice and the wedding is just two days away now. I really need to go.’ She looked at the three puzzled faces surrounding her.
‘Well, if you must, darling.’ Angel wafted her hand around. ‘Don’t want you looking like a tramp on your big day.’ She turned to Ben and Jared. ‘Looks like it will be just us three, then. Shall we?’
‘What?’ Jamie was aghast. ‘You’re all going without me.’
‘Why not, darling?’ Angel hooked one arm through Ben’s and the other through Jared’s. ‘We’ve got so much to talk about.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Lisa stepped timidly into the bar. Jeff had suggested it, and Lisa had been too flustered in the school assembly to think of an alternative. But, a bar? Was that really the appropriate place for meeting with one’s private investigator? Particularly a bar that was dimly lit and scattered with private booths and sort of screamed SEX.
What would Scott think if he could see her now? On her way out of the house, he’d kissed her on the forehead and pressed fifty dollars into her hands. ‘Enjoy the drinks! Have one on me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Shame you can’t stay longer. You might have made some friends.’
Poor, unaware Scott. He really had no clue. Lisa had to bite on her lip to stop herself from spilling the beans. Lying gave her a stomach-ache. In Scott’s mind, Lisa’s night involved making a brief appearance at the kindy mums’ drinks night, and then heading to Jamie’s hairdresser where her sister planned to have a trial run of her ‘do’ for the wedding.
But, here she was, walking into a sexy bar to meet with a very good-looking man—objectively speaking, the whole linen/sherbet colours thing didn’t really do it for Lisa. She was more a jeans and polo shirt kind of woman—all to discuss an investigation she hadn’t even cleared with her sweet husband.
Lisa let her eyes grow accustomed to the dim lighting. There was Jeff, in the corner and pastel as ever, completely at odds with the dark tones of the leather banquette that seemed to hug around him. Lisa waved nervously. God, this was worse than a first date, if the butterflies in her stomach were anything to go by. Fingers-crossed she didn’t run into anyone she knew. That would be an absolute disaster. How would it look? Her, a married woman, meeting in a sexy bar with a Don Johnson lookalike?
‘Lisa! Hey!’
She wheeled around, heart in her mouth.
‘Heather, what are you doing here?’ Lisa clutched a hand to her chest.
‘Thought you could use some back-up.’ Heather gave a little wave to Jeff. ‘And I’m absolutely dying for a little Negroni. I tell you. Out of this world.’
‘Ladies, a pleasure to see you as always.’ Jeff rose and gave Heather a kiss on the cheek. Lisa went to shake hands but Jeff drew her in for a kiss as well. He smelt good. Very good. Lisa swooned a little. Maybe pastels weren’t all bad.
‘Oh! Right. Thanks, Jeff. How are you?’
He slid back into the banquette and frowned. ‘I wish I had better news for you.’
‘Why? What is it? Have you found Missy? Is she all right?’ Lisa slid so far to the edge of the leather seat that she had to grab hold of the table to stop herself from falling right off.
Jeff gave her a look and, at that moment, Lisa noticed he wasn’t quite his usual suave self. Perhaps it had been camouflaged by the dim lighting but now that Lisa was closer, she could see a ring of grey around Jeff’s normally sparkling blue eyes. The linen shirt had gone from artfully crushed to been in the dirty laundry too long and he was pale, in places, a dead giveaway for a spray tan that needed a top-up. He shifted in the seat. ‘Look, I’m just going to say this straight out.’ He clasped his hands together and focused on the coaster in front of him. ‘I can’t find her.’
‘But you were so confident. I don’t quite understand.’ Lisa turned to Heather, who gave a don’t ask me shrug.
‘It happens occasionally, usually when people have a good reason to not want to be found. It’s not impossible to completely disappear you know.’
‘And that’s what’s happened here?’ Heather demanded.
‘Maybe,’ Jeff conceded. ‘But I do know one thing for certain, which is why I brought you here.’ He looked from Heather to Lisa. ‘I’m not the only one looking for her.’
Lisa inhaled. ‘Why? Who else is looking?’
Jeff picked up the little plastic stick in his drink and started to swirl it. ‘I ran a check on the address you gave me, the one in Daceyville, and I couldn’t get anything that related Missy to the place, but I did find out that the house is owned by a man by the name of Igor Ivanov.’
‘Igor Ivanov,’ Heather repeated with a snort. ‘Next you’re going to tell us he’s Russian mafia.’
Jeff gave her a look. ‘Please! Keep your voice down.’ He looked about the empty bar before continuing. ‘Anyway, I knew the name was familiar so I asked around a bit and it turns out he’s also put out the feelers to track down the woman who was renting his granny flat, and more specifically, her daughter.’
Lisa felt bile rising into her throat. ‘Is this man …’ she swallowed hard. ‘Is he dangerous?’
Jeff put the stick into his mouth and started to chew on it. ‘I don’t think so.’
Heather sniffed. ‘That’s hardly reassuring. Is he a criminal or isn’t he?’
‘Let me put it this way,’ he began slowly. ‘There was a time Igor Ivanov was very active in the underworld, but he’s an old man now. Over eighty I believe.’
‘But mafia bosses don’t just retire, do they? It’s not like they
have pension plans and a super fund. Either they get killed, or they go to jail. Isn’t that how it ends?’ insisted Heather.
Lisa sat back, with a feeling of having been punched in the gut.
Is she trying to make me feel better or worse?
‘Not always,’ said Jeff mildly. ‘The smart ones, and there aren’t many of them, get out of the game, enjoy their millions and let the young bucks take over.’
Lisa found her voice. ‘But I don’t get it. What would this Ivanov man want with Missy? Or Ellie, for that matter? She’s just a little girl.’
‘Who knows?’ Jeff shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re related. Maybe Missy’s his lover. Maybe Ivanov is Ellie’s dad? I’ve got no idea. Missy Jones is a complete Jane Doe. She could be anyone to him.’
Lisa slumped back in the banquette. It was utterly ridiculous. One minute, Jamie had her believing Jared could be Ellie’s father, and now, Jeff was trying to convince her it could be an eighty-year-old mafia boss, possibly retired.
‘Anyway,’ said Jeff miserably. ‘I just thought you should know.’
‘Right, well, thank you for that information. I think we’d best be going.’ Lisa rose and tugged on Heather’s arm.
‘Wait! What are you doing? Aren’t we at least going to have a cocktail?’
Dropping Heather’s arm, Lisa headed for the door. She needed to get outside. She needed air. Space. An environment that didn’t contain leather. Or pastel linen.
Outside, she leant against a telegraph pole and closed her eyes.
‘Are you going to faint? Tell me if you’re going to faint because I need to be ready.’
Lisa opened her eyes to find Heather with her knees bent and her arms outstretched, ready to catch her.
‘I’m not going to faint,’ she said weakly. ‘But I might be sick.’ She rubbed her stomach.
‘Here!’ Putting a hand into the small of her back, Heather led her over to the gutter. ‘This will have to do.’
Lisa turned around. ‘It’s all right. I’m not actually going to be sick. I just feel very, very queasy.’
Heather nodded. ‘I had that when I was pregnant with Savannah and the only thing that would fix it was hot chips.’ She held her finger up. ‘That’s exactly what we need. Wait right here.’
