I buckled. ‘OK. I suppose you are getting twice as much exercise as normal.’
He wagged his whole body with pleasure as I shook out a few dog biscuits, and then shoved his nose into the dish. I have to confess I took a certain pleasure in weaning him off Cindy’s ridiculous Dog Zone diet and onto more traditional fare. Like Bonios.
The florist I booked my ‘Year of Flowers’ gifts with called to inform me that some miscreant had bounced a cheque with her; a client from Fulham was worried about how he could book a massage for his sister without looking like a pervert; a nervous, muffled call, possibly made from inside a stair cupboard, came from a client in an enviably smart house in Chelsea, who wanted to know how he could get his new mother-in-law to leave after her ‘flying visit to the Harrods summer sale’ had extended into a three-week nightmare.
And the final message was from Daddy. I knew that just from the first breath he took before launching into his message. It was short and to the point.
‘Melissa. I’ve called the agency three times now and Allegra hasn’t answered the phone. I need to get hold of her. The silly mare phoned your mother, talking about applying for a mortgage, and we don’t want that, do we?’
Why not? I wondered. The rest of us had to.
But Daddy was frothing on. ‘The last thing that silly girl needs – and the last thing I bloody need, come to that – is some nosey parker bank clerk poking through sensitive financial documents. Good God! I swear you three do these things just to bring on my early demise. Do I need to tell you I am on holiday, with your poor mother, and I’m still forced to deal with the cretinous shenanigans of her children? Hmm?’
With an odd, almost euphorically drug-like detachment, I watched Braveheart stuffing his face, and getting crumbs over his freshly groomed beard. None of the above was actually my problem for once. Allegra, Daddy, Lars . . .
Then I remembered that Allegra’s salary went through my books, and normal service was resumed.
I had equally bad luck in getting hold of Allegra, and was lying down on Jonathan’s big brass bed, flicking through a New York recipe book I’d bought for Nelson, when my mobile rang again.
I grabbed it, in case Allegra had deigned to return my call.
‘Hey, Melissa,’ grunted a familiar voice. ‘You about?’
It was Godric. I hadn’t actually spoken to him since I’d got back. I hadn’t liked to, with Jonathan making transparent excuses not to see his play. Godric, though, was one of the few people I knew in New York who didn’t view me through Cindy-tinted specs, and I was sort of getting used to his grumpy company. He reminded me, in some ways, of a very hung-over Nelson.
‘Speak up, Godric,’ I said. I could barely hear him for the sound of a car revving in the street below. ‘I’m . . .’ I flipped the book shut. ‘I’m working.’
‘Right,’ he said, not sounding remotely bothered. ‘Well, I got your list of suggestions.’
‘Did you?’ I’d asked Gabi to forward them to my email account so I could approve them, but so far she hadn’t . . .
‘You’ve read them?’ I repeated, more fiercely.
‘Yeah, your partner sent them to me.’
Partner, was it now?
‘Right, well, I didn’t have time to, um, conference with my partner, so maybe we should just have a quick run through them before you actually—’
‘I’m not doing anything right now,’ he said with something approaching eagerness. ‘If you’re about. You know.’
‘Um . . .’ No matter what Jonathan said, I couldn’t just drop Godric. That would be rude and unprofessional. And it wasn’t like I was doing anything.
The engine continued revving in the street. I gave in and peered out of the window. A huge black car, the size of two king-size beds, was blocking the street, much to the annoyance of a couple of dogwalkers and an old lady who was trying to get past on her bicycle. I wasn’t totally au fait with cars, but this one looked as if it did about three miles to the gallon. The driver was getting through a gallon or two now, just in show-off revving. Honestly.
‘You’ll have to speak up, Godric, I can hardly hear you. Some idiot outside . . .’ I put a finger in my ear. ‘Where are you?’
‘I said, you want to go out for a coffee? I’ve got something to show you.’
I checked my watch. I wasn’t meeting Jonathan until six, so I had plenty of time. I supposed I should at least find out what Gabi had told him to do.
‘Well, all right,’ I said. ‘But I have to be back by three. I’m going out for dinner tonight.’
‘Aces. Come on down.’
‘What?’
‘I’m outside.’
I went back to the window. I couldn’t see inside the car since it had those ‘look at me! No, don’t look at me!’ celebrity tinted windows, but Godric obviously saw me, because he started honking the horn. The woman on the bicycle looked up at the window, and I ducked down in shame.
‘I’ll be right there,’ I said, grabbing my bag.
Outside, I avoided the gaze of passers-by and slid gratefully into the cavernous interior of Godric’s car, horrifying myself by noticing, yet again, how delightfully powerful the air-con was. Nelson would have three environmentally inspired fits if he knew how many natural resources I was wasting on keeping cool in this sweaty city.
I looked round. Godric, in the driver’s seat, seemed a long way away.
I didn’t like to say, ‘This is yours?’ because wherever I placed the stress in the sentence it sounded faintly insulting. It felt as if I were sitting inside a very pricey black handbag: there was more leather than I’d ever seen outside a DFS showroom. Quite astonishing. Things glittered at me, and the bits that weren’t leather or glittering were sort of dull black. It all smelled wildly expensive.
‘So, you’ve—’ I started to say, but he lifted a silencing hand.
I found that with men and cars. They seemed to acquire a whole new personality as soon as they were installed behind the wheel of something with an engine bigger than a lawnmower – a personality borrowed largely from films. Whereas Nelson turned into one of the camp stunt drivers from The Italian Job, Godric seemed to be channelling Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder. Or was it some kind of gangsta rapper? Whatever it was, he’d donned a new pair of black sunglasses. They were somehow . . . blingier than his usual ones.
‘Put your seat belt on and don’t touch nuttin’,’ he instructed me, in a strange combination of Brooklyn gangsta and Tufty Club safety drill.
‘I have no intention of—’
‘OK, let’s go,’ mumbled Godric and floored the accelerator. I was jerked forward then flung back in my seat so hard that my head actually hit the headrest, and from the cavalcade of horns around us I guessed we were lucky not to have collided with anything else.
I swallowed as Godric made appreciative noises over the sound of the engine. The trick was not to let them feel your fear. I’d learned that with horses at Pony Club.
‘So, er, where d’you want to go?’ asked Godric, running out of attitude.
‘Don’t mind!’ I managed to squeak.
With a cautious stab in the direction of the matt black controls, he buzzed down the windows and turned on the stereo in one movement. Europe blasted out at tooth-rattling volume, mid-synth solo. It wasn’t what you’d call street.
‘It’s the finaaal countdoooooowwwn! Top Gear Driving Anthems!’ he yelled, making a death metal horn symbol with a broad smile. ‘Rockin’!’
I hesitated, then smiled back. It was kind of endearing.
‘I took your advice,’ he went on. ‘You did say an M6, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes!’ I said. Gabi was the expert, not me. Buildings flashed back at a worrying rate. ‘It’s, er . . . It’s very impressive. Do you want to slow down a little?’
‘Nope!’ Godric straightened his arms against the multifunction steering wheel. I’d rarely seen him look so animated. It seemed unfair to spoil it for him.
I slid down into t
he leather sports seat and slipped off my shoes, the better to brace my stockinged feet against the nearest reinforced structure. It would be an experience, at least.
We roared through the streets, leaving a trail of soft metal and exhaust fumes behind us. Once I’d got over the initial stomach-lurch every time Godric changed lanes, I started to enjoy myself – after all, it wasn’t often one was swept through New York by a film star, albeit a rather unfinished one.
We left the brownstones behind us, and I think we started approaching Central Park. The buildings got taller, anyway, and I could see green through the smoked glass.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked Godric.
‘Don’t know,’ he yelled back, then added solicitously, ‘you OK there? Comfortable? Not scared?’
I smiled, pleased to see him enjoying himself. He was quite a good driver, to be fair to him, and it was a pretty fantastic car. ‘I feel perfectly safe in your hands, Godric!’
A strange look crossed his face and he reverted to his usual round-shouldered self. ‘Uh, thanks, Mel.’
‘Quite capable hands they seem to be too!’ I added cheerfully. ‘Are you going to take me on a bit of a joyride? Scream if you want to go faster, and all that?’ I pushed a random button and felt my seat move in on me, gripping my waist in a surprisingly intimate way, for a car. ‘Oooh! Godric!’ I giggled. ‘Something’s vibrating! I’m getting all . . . tingly! Wow! What else can this car do?’
Godric made a choking noise, and I looked over. He’d gone very pink and seemed to be fidgeting suddenly with his trousers.
‘Oh, God, sorry!’ I exclaimed, jabbing at the buttons. ‘Have I made your seat vibrate too?’
‘No,’ he croaked. ‘It’s just that . . . I, um . . .’ He looked at me, and I noticed that despite the air-con he was perspiring. I made a mental note to introduce some natural fibres to his wardrobe. ‘Thanks for coming out with me it was jolly decent of you know how busy you are and everything and—’
I patted his knee jovially. ‘Eyes on the road, Godric. You don’t want to be a James Dean kind of film star, now, do you?’
That seemed to snap him back into his mean and moody actor mode and after a few blocks, I noticed that he was speeding up and getting quite chancy with the red lights. I hoped he wasn’t doing it to impress me.
‘Godric, don’t you think you should keep an eye on the speedo?’ I asked. ‘I mean, it would be awful to get a ticket on your maiden voyage.’
He grunted in response and looked in the rear-view mirror for what seemed like the first time.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Is there something . . . ?’
When he didn’t reply, I looked round myself – it wasn’t the sort of car that had easy-to-check mirrors – and saw that someone was following us, very close.
‘Gosh, they should back off,’ I said, turning back in my seat. ‘American drivers are so inconsiderate, don’t you find? The cars are so huge they don’t even think what a shunt would feel like.’
Godric didn’t take my hint, though. His mind seemed elsewhere. ‘So, you think this is a sexy car, then?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘A girl could really imagine being swept off her feet in one of these. It’s very . . . James Bond.’
Godric flicked an eyebrow and, I think, tried to look like Jeremy Clarkson. ‘The . . . ride is very smooth with the M series models. They’re quite . . . powerful. If this car was a man, it would be . . . Pierce Brosnan. Eating a steak. In Claridges.’
I smiled politely. God knows I wasn’t trying to encourage him, but there was a fine line between reining a chap in and destroying his confidence completely. Poor Godric needed lots of practice, Lord love him.
‘Like the look of the back seat?’ he added.
I twisted round. A broad expanse of leather gleamed luxuriously. ‘Ooh, yes,’ I exclaimed. ‘You could practically lie down back there!’
When I twisted back, Godric snapped his head round very quickly, almost as if he’d been trying to look down my top. I tugged my cardigan together where it had started to gape.
‘Did you know, you can see right down your—’ Godric began conversationally.
‘That doesn’t mean you have to look,’ I snapped. ‘So, did you get your first pay cheque for the film, then?’
‘Er, sort of.’
The other car was getting very near. I hoped they weren’t car-jackers. I’d read about that sort of thing.
‘Why don’t you just let him past?’ I suggested. ‘Pull over?’
‘Melissa, I have a British driving licence,’ Godric informed me darkly. ‘If he wants to get past, he can indicate. That’s the way it works. Fair’s fair.’
I looked round again. The car behind was now so close that I could see there were two men in the front seats, both wearing rather sinister-looking shades. If they got any closer, they’d be able to change the CD in the player. As I looked, one smiled at me, and it wasn’t nice. At all.
My skin went cold. Could they be something to do with Allegra? Could they somehow have found out I was here? Could Allegra be mixed up, somehow, with . . . the Mafia?
I grabbed Godric’s arm. ‘For Pete’s sake, this isn’t the time for your ridiculous right and wrong games! Pull over, just pull over.’
‘No way!’ he snarled. Clearly he wasn’t just driving a Bond car. He was James Bond. Usually, I’d be perfectly happy as a Bond girl, but not like this.
‘Please!’
Then belatedly, the passenger in the car behind slammed a revolving light on top of the car and turned on the siren.
I swivelled as far as my seat belt would allow. ‘Godric!’ I roared. ‘It’s the police! I am telling you now – pull over!’
A broad smile broke across his face. ‘Excellent! Let’s go!’
I couldn’t believe this. We were in a car chase. Godric really did only galvanise himself in make-believe situations.
As we roared through the streets, my mind raced equally quickly, trying to establish some kind of defence. Paige would go insane when she found out I’d let Godric get himself into this much trouble. Or maybe she wouldn’t. We’d never quite established just how dangerous she wanted him to appear.
A thought occurred to me. ‘Godric, tell me honestly,’ I said, in my very firmest tone. ‘Do you have any idea why the police would have been following us? Before you started jumping lights.’
The CD shuffled Europe off, and the Smiths on. Morrissey didn’t fit with the gangsta car any better than Joey Tempest had.
‘Godric!’ I snapped, as he squirmed pleasurably. This wasn’t the time to discover his supernanny fixation. ‘Quickly!’
He huffed and reslumped his shoulders. ‘Ngh. Dunno. Oh, wait – it might be something to do with the dealer bloke.’
My heart sank. ‘You are talking about car dealers here?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, what about him?’
Godric gave sullen ‘Why are you bothering me? Eugh! You’re so unfair!’ shrug, and any residual vestiges of film star vanished as the more familiar overgrown adolescent reappeared. ‘I think I might have left him at the petrol station.’
The police car was now trying to overtake us, to head us off.
‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘You left him?’
‘Yeah,’ grunted Godric. ‘He was boring the pants off me, with his boring car dealer spiel, so when he stopped to put some petrol in it, I thought I’d just take it round the block a few times on my own, see what you thought, then take it back.’ He paused. ‘Only I got lost.’
I covered my face with my hands for a few seconds, but when I removed them, everything was still there. Including the siren.
‘Pull over!’ I said firmly. ‘Pull over now!’
‘I’m not very good with left-hand-drive cars,’ he whined.
‘Do it, or I’ll do it for you!’
Godric lurched to a halt, nearly taking out a street sweeper.
‘Right,’ I said, thinking quickly. I had maybe
thirty seconds. ‘Don’t say a word. Leave this to me.’
‘What are you going to say?’
‘I don’t know yet. Let’s see how mad they are.’
We got a rough idea of how mad they were when both policemen leaped out of the car and started yelling at us through a loudhailer.
‘Get out of the car and put your hands on the roof! Don’t try any sudden movements! We are armed, repeat armed.’
Godric and I stared at each other.
Then to my absolute horror, he frowned. The same affronted English gent frown that I’d seen before he punched the man in Central Park. ‘This is really not on!’ he said. ‘Armed police? How unnecessary is that? And you’ve done nothing wrong!’
Before I could stop him, he swung the door open, shouting, ‘This is police harassment, you barbarians!’
‘Noooo!’ I yelled, jumping out as fast as I could. How much worse could this get?
The nearest officer made a grab for Godric and started to cuff him. ‘Thought you could just stroll into a car dealership with your fancy British accent and steal a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car, huh? I am arresting you—’
‘No, wait!’ I protested, wilting slightly under the un-expected humidity. ‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Nope,’ said the other policeman with supreme lack of interest. ‘Hugh Laurie? Tony Blair? Don’t make no difference – it’s still theft.’
‘I am going to get my agent on to you,’ Godric was fulminating, his face turning red and white with rage. ‘And she is going to sue your arse off!’
‘Go right ahead, sir. We look forward to receiving her call. In the meantime—’
‘But this is Ric Spencer, the actor! The Hollywood actor? And he didn’t steal the car,’ I insisted, as the other one started to approach me with a pair of cuffs. ‘He was, um, taking it for a test drive.’
‘We know that, miss. We received the call from the car-jackee.’
I swallowed. ‘Yes, well, he was taking it for a test drive as part of his research for a new role he’s playing in an upcoming movie with, er, Keira Knightley, in which Ric here—’
‘Still theft.’
‘Yes, but I was getting to that . . .’ I stalled, as the cuffs got nearer and my mind got blanker.
Little Lady, Big Apple Page 28
