I went back to my desk and dialled Nick. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but if a slanging match ensued, with the office empty at least I wouldn’t have an audience.
‘Zoë? Thanks for returning my call.’
He sounded cordial enough, but I wasn’t about to let my guard down.
‘I hear I’m interviewing Jonny Delaney tomorrow. Did you have a specific time in mind or do I have to clear my whole day?’
I hadn’t meant to sound tetchy, but it was breathtakingly arrogant of him to tell Mike before telling me.
‘I tried calling, but you didn’t pick up.’
‘Do you blame me, after the stunt you pulled yesterday?’
‘You’ve made a lot of assumptions about my role in what happened. I’ve tried to explain, but it gets a bit boring when you won’t listen.’
‘I choose not to listen when I’m being fed bullcrap, Nick. And I can smell yours from a mile away.’
‘You didn’t exactly come up smelling of roses, either. If you’d played your part properly last night we might have got somewhere with Jessica. But your head’s not in the game, you’re too preoccupied with Simon.’
My breath stilled. Did he just use my feelings about Simon against me? The fucking cheek of the man. He knew nothing about Simon. I had a hundred comebacks, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait.
‘Why don’t we stick to talking about Jonny?’ I said, my voice even.
He paused, presumably weighing up his options. ‘Can you make seven a.m.? You’ll be done by eight and then you can get to your office at your normal time.’
Why did his reasonableness annoy me? Oh yes, because I couldn’t trust him. ‘And what about Marcie?’
‘Within the week.’
I blew out a breath, frustrated at yet more vague promises. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’
He was silent for a couple of moments. ‘I won’t let you down.’
We’d see about that.
*
I tried to get on with the day, but I still couldn’t decide how much to trust Nick. So, I rang the only other person who could help: Patrick. I was in luck because he was round the corner in John Lewis buying a new set of suitcases.
‘Could we maybe meet for a coffee?’ I said. ‘I won’t take up too much time, I promise.’
‘Of course, Zoë, dear,’ he said. ‘I’ve always got time for you, and I could do with a second opinion.’
We met in the cafeteria on the top floor where I found him at a table by a window overlooking Oxford Street.
‘You’re looking great, Pat,’ I said, kissing him on the cheek before sitting down. ‘Retirement obviously agrees with you.’
He pointed to the half-eaten slice of cake in front of him. ‘No, it’s the chocolate that agrees with me.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going a bit mad trying to keep busy,’ he admitted. ‘I’m packing up the flat before we go to Crete, but all my cases are falling apart.’
‘All that time on the road, Pat,’ I said.
‘I hate to get rid of them. They’re like a record of my life – every knock, scratch and tear tells a story.’
‘Like the time you were in Cupertino for a meeting with Apple and your case fell open in the lobby of their space-age HQ.’
Pat smiled. ‘Oh God, the look on Steve’s face when he saw I had more condoms than clothes in my bag. He wanted to run for the hills!’
‘Not what most people bring to their meetings with tech giants.’
‘I’d come straight from the airport. The flight had been delayed, I was jet-lagged and my breath stank because the only thing I’d eaten for twenty-four hours were Twiglets, owing to an enormous hangover I’d been nursing since Heathrow.’
I grinned. ‘You need to write your memoirs, Pat.’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ah, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy about so many things, Zoë, I wouldn’t be able to put in any of the good stuff.’
‘You’ll have to share some of those secrets with me one day.’
He winked. ‘I’m sure when you come over to the vineyard, and the wine’s loosened my tongue, you won’t be able to stop me.’
He took a sip of his tea. ‘So, what’s going on with you, Zoë? You sounded quite perturbed on the phone. Is this about your new beau?’
I shook my head. ‘No, this is a work thing, I’m afraid. I wanted your advice on Marcie’s new publicist. I can’t get a handle on him and my instincts are all over the place. His name is Nick Jones – he was at your party that night.’
A small frown creased his brow. ‘There were so many people at the party and I’m afraid I didn’t get to speak to all of them.’
I was so sure Pat would know him that I was thrown.
‘But you must have met him before,’ I said, smiling. ‘Come on, Pat. You know everyone.’
‘I must be slipping in my old age,’ he said.
There was no way Pat was anything other than razor-sharp. ‘You must know him. He looks like a matinée idol.’
Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘He sounds intriguing.’
I tried not to let my disappointment show. ‘Could you ask around? I want to know if I should trust him.’
‘Has he been slippery?’
‘It’s unclear,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure if his actions and words match up.’
‘Sounds like a typical music publicist, if you ask me. And nothing you can’t handle.’
I guess he was giving me the young Padawan speech from Star Wars; telling me to trust myself instead of thinking other people had the answers.
‘Come on, then,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you want me to have a look at the cases before you chose one? Justin won’t thank you if you turn up with a suitcase covered in pink leopard print.’
‘It’s okay, my dear,’ he said. ‘You get going – I’m sure you’ve got more important things to be getting on with.’
‘It’s no bother, Patrick.’
He reached over and patted my hand. ‘How about I promise to stick to black?’
I left feeling a little out of sorts. Pat seemed a bit off. Maybe he was finding retirement less fun than he expected. My parents had been like that when they’d sold the restaurant. Membership of the National Trust had helped, but I doubted a gift subscription would go down so well with Pat. Still, he had Crete to look forward to.
I was disappointed that Pat had nothing concrete to tell me about Nick. But I supposed he was right – I couldn’t rely on him to keep giving me advice on everything. He wanted to step back from the business and I needed to stand on my own two feet.
My mood improved considerably when Simon rang. I’d been worried that he was still upset about the previous night. But he didn’t mention it and started telling me about a work trip he was having to take tomorrow.
‘I’ll be a few days,’ he said. ‘But the good news is that when I come back I’ll have a flat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I signed a lease today. I pick up the keys tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s great, Si. Congratulations. Whereabouts?’
‘Just on the other side of the roundabout.’
I smiled. ‘Oh God, you’re going to be banging my door down at all hours, demanding cups of sugar.’
It was a shame he was going away for a few days, but at least things seemed okay between us.
‘I’m sorry about how last night ended, Simon.’
‘No, I’m sorry I lashed out at you. I was mad at Nick – for lots of reasons. But mainly because I didn’t like the way he was pawing at you.’
‘He wasn’t pawing at me,’ I said.
‘He obviously likes you.’
‘Don’t be daft, Si. You’ve got absolutely no reason to be . . .’ I stopped, unsure how to end that sentence. I’d been about to say ‘jealous’, but that would sound presumptuous. Though how else could I interpret Simon’s words? He’d been so upset on Jess’s behalf, convinced that Nick was out to get her, it was nice to be the object of his concern
for once.
‘You don’t need to worry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got no interest in Nick.’
‘Good.’
The single syllable was delivered with feeling.
I smiled, grateful he couldn’t see my grinning face through the phone.
‘Let’s not talk about Nick Jones. I don’t want to think about work.’ Except now, of course, I was thinking about work, specifically, the Jonny Delaney interview tomorrow and whether Nick would be there.
‘Want to come over for a drink?’ he said.
It was tempting, but I needed to keep a clear head for the interview. ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
‘That’s a shame, I thought we could celebrate my new flat.’
‘Let’s do a proper housewarming when you’re back.’
‘God, I’m so looking forward to having some space. I’m fed up of living in a hotel room. I don’t care how great the bed is.’
‘What’s so great about your bed?’ As soon as the words had left my lips, I regretted them. Or rather, realised how laden with innuendo they sounded.
He chuckled. ‘After all these years, you’re finally asking?’
I’ve thought about your bed a million times, I wanted to shout. But that would have been spectacularly uncool.
‘Are you inviting me over to see your etchings?’
‘It’s my last night in the hotel. I thought maybe you’d like to spend it with me.’
Blood was pumping in my ears. It was also making other parts of me pulse. But this was a decision my brain needed to make, and it was very strenuously advising against.
‘You’re off on a work trip and I’ve got a big interview tomorrow morning.’ These were lame reasons, I knew, but I would have sounded even lamer listing my real objections: my armpits needed shaving, there was possibly a strand of tuna stuck in my teeth from lunchtime and I was wearing lust-extinguishing underwear – knickers like grey flapping sails and a mustard-coloured bra. (In my defence it had been half-price.)
‘Another time, then.’
My mouth was dry, but I managed to answer him. ‘Another time.’
19
Nowhere to Run
It was 6.45 a.m. when I got off the tube at Waterloo. I’d set two alarms, paranoid that one wouldn’t work, so here I was, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule for my interview with Jonny Delaney. Nick had arranged it early so it didn’t clash with my working day, but what I’d then taken for thoughtfulness now felt more like mind games.
It wasn’t clear from Nick’s text whether I’d be meeting Jonny alone or if he would come too, but I had my answer now.
Nick was leaning against a wall, his hands in his pockets and his head tilted towards the sun. His stillness was exaggerated by the bustle of commuters spiralling from the station.
He saw me approaching and straightened. His eyes were wary. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
‘Couldn’t disappoint Jonny.’ I looked around, trying to locate the man in question. ‘Where is he?’
‘Let’s walk.’
I followed his lead, and we fell into step.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was snappy with you on the phone. I should have just told you what you needed to hear, which also happens to be the truth: I didn’t send the paparazzi on Sunday night.’
He seemed genuinely sorry, but what did I know? And anyway, did it matter if he was telling the truth or not? I was back on good terms with Simon and that was all I cared about.
‘What’s done is done,’ I said, keeping my voice neutral. ‘I’m here to interview your client, and then the next contact you and I have will be when you call to tell me where and when I can interview Marcie Tyler.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘What, no social calls?’
I frowned. ‘We’re not friends, Nick. I’m sure you’re a perfectly nice bloke, but we have a working relationship and that’s all.’
He tipped his head to one side. ‘I feel like I’m missing a page in this script.’
‘Never mind,’ I said, wishing I’d never let Simon’s assessment of Nick’s intentions towards me get under my skin. ‘If you got the wrong idea, it’s partly my fault because I asked you to pretend to be my boyfriend, but that was a one-off. And it was an act.’
He held up his hands. ‘I just did what I was told.’
I nodded. ‘Great. I’m glad we cleared that up.’
After a couple of beats, he said: ‘So, are you and Simon . . .?’
‘That’s not really your business,’ I said. ‘But yes, sort of.’
I’m not sure why I hadn’t stopped talking after ‘business’. Except I did know why; my curiosity was just too damned piqued, and my next question had already formed on my lips. ‘Are you and Marcie . . .?’
His eyes widened in surprise. ‘No. Why would you say that?’
I waved my hand in front of him. ‘Cos you’ve got the sort of face ancient civilisations built temples for, and Marcie’s a legend.’ Not to mention all the rumours.
I was digging myself deeper now, but didn’t know how to stop. ‘No one would blame you.’ Except, of course, everyone. ‘Look, forget I said anything. I’m sorry.’
He nodded. ‘Okay, well, at least that’s sorted.’
‘Where’s Jonny?’ I said, happy to talk about him for the first time in my life.
‘He’s meeting us there.’
I glanced around us. ‘Where is this mythical place?’
Nick nudged my shoulder with his and pointed to the sky.
A plane was flying high above Big Ben. ‘Jonny’s on a plane? We’re miles from an airport.’
‘No, I don’t mean the plane. I mean the London Eye.’
‘You want to do the interview on the London Eye?’
‘It was Jonny’s idea and I thought it might be fun.’
‘It’ll be busy, won’t it?’
‘I’ve reserved a pod.’
Of course he had.
Nick looked at his watch. It was one of those sleek Swiss affairs, with too many buttons and dials. ‘We should get over there.’
Jonny was waiting by the ticket office, along with our photographer David whom I’d spoken to yesterday. Two minders were waiting discreetly to one side while David watched something on Jonny’s phone. He was grinning and nodding at whatever was on Jonny’s screen, but suddenly stopped when he saw me, as if he were a schoolboy caught with a girly mag by a teacher.
‘Jonny was just showing me his new bike,’ he said.
Yeah, right. Nick must have read my mind because he held open his palm and Jonny duly dropped his phone into it. Nick frowned at the screen. ‘Who buys a Ducati in lime green? I had a cat who used to shit that colour.’
My jaw dropped at Nick’s rudeness, but Jonny hadn’t seemed to take offence because he was grinning. ‘It’s a custom colour, you fucker. Only twelve of them were ever made.’
‘Sweet,’ said David, who looked as relieved as I was that Nick’s comment had evidently only been banter.
Jonny took his phone back and gazed once more at the screen. ‘I’m picking this beauty up in a couple of hours, so can we get started, please?’
‘Follow me,’ said Nick.
A few people were milling around the embarkation pen; but surprisingly, no Hands Down fans. How had Jonny resisted broadcasting this on Twitter? A couple of Japanese girls seemed more interested in a police boat motoring along the Thames than this multi-million-selling pop star. Even Jonny’s day-glo orange biker jacket wasn’t attracting attention.
He was going to look a bloody sight on that Ducati.
The slow-moving wheel seemed to come to a complete standstill and the four of us were shepherded into an empty pod. Once the door clanged shut, it was remarkably quiet in our glass cocoon.
David was manoeuvring Jonny to one corner and getting off a few early shots, while Nick sat down on the central bench with his back to them, his eyes following a train rumbling over Waterloo bridge.
I walked over to the corner furthest fro
m them. The capsule’s glass walls and steel supports made me feel like I was in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon. Except instead of an expanse of stars, I had a blue sky overhead and a murky brown Thames beneath my feet.
Whoa. When had we got so high?
I pressed my hand against the glass to steady myself, and planted my feet more firmly on the floor.
Was that a wobble?
The central arc of the wheel loomed above, and a hundred steel sinews cobwebbed around us.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. We weren’t wobbling; we were barely moving. My mind was playing tricks on me.
‘Zoë?’ Nick was beside me. ‘We should get started with the interview.’
I prised my eyes open then quickly shut them again. We were higher up now.
‘Zoë? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Just a bit hungover.’
I swung round to face the middle of the pod, but it was useless; I was surrounded by glass, so couldn’t get away from the fact that I was suspended God knows how many feet above ground in a spindly bauble that could come away from its hinges at any second. Sweat pricked the back of my neck and my palms grew slippery.
‘Oi, Nick!’ came Jonny’s voice from miles away. ‘There’s a fat naked fucker on the bank who’s about to go for a swim in the river!’ Nick went over to Jonny, but I kept my eyes firmly trained on Big Ben. It was only ten past. We had forty more minutes of this. My knees started to buckle as I crept towards the central bench.
‘Look, he’s kept his trainers on!’ shouted Jonny. ‘I’ve got to get a photo of this.’
I sat down and sent a silent prayer to the skinny-dipper who’d bought me some precious moments to pull myself together.
This was crazy. I wasn’t afraid of heights. And the hangover bit was a lie. Then it hit me: this was claustrophobia.
But it was absurd. It’s one thing to be frightened in a lift – a small, enclosed space – but to be having a panic attack in a glass-fronted space the size of my bedroom was madness.
I was losing my mind. In front of Jonny fucking Delaney. I was damned if I was going to show him any sign of weakness. I needed to concentrate on the job in hand. My heart flapped like a panicked bird, but I gritted my teeth. This was for the future of Re:Sound. I could bloody well pull myself together for thirty-nine more minutes.
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 18
