A gulp of tea and she was ready for action. She shooed the children into their rooms, pointed them at their school uniforms, and retired to the shower. By the time she got out, Marcus had staggered through the door, wheezy but triumphant. He thrust the paper into her hands and made for the bathroom, stripping off his sweaty tracksuit as he went. She retreated to get dressed and have a quick shufti through the business pages. Aha! What was this little snippit?
Hoare and Stock Disenchanted with Their Paysage?
Rumors are rife that upstart cosmetics company Paysage Enchanté, generally credited with having set the New Ruralist ball rolling, may be next on the menu for a Very Big Fish. A not-so-orderly queue of bruised multinationals has been forming to snap up the tiny but perfectly formed PE, as profits from hi-tech cosmetics products have nose-dived. Who will be the lucky winner? No one wants to say for certain, but Madeleine Hoare and Isabel Stock, founder/directors, are unlikely to be losers if they sell out!
“Shit!” Izzie jumped up and pulled on her clothes at top speed. “Shit, shit, shit!”
As she dashed downstairs, she registered Jess, now fully dressed, and Charlie, still strumming along to Queen in his underpants, emerging from their rooms into the hallway and exchanging horrified grins at her language. She reached for the phone. “Maddy, have you seen it?”
“Yes. God knows how they got hold of that! Do you think someone saw us at the hotel and put two and two together?”
“Must have, I suppose. Drake’s team were really cloak and dagger—just like on Secret Squirrel—and it can’t have been any of our lot.”
“Can’t it?” Maddy sounded suddenly suspicious. “I know Peter would never do a thing like that, but—”
“Geoff? Do you really think so? What a slimy toad!”
“Mmmm,” mused Maddy. “Well, don’t let’s jump to conclusions and start accusing him. I don’t even know what effect this might have. Do you think Tessutini would pull out because of it?”
“Nah! They’re solid, I reckon. I’m sure they want us, and it confirms here what Geoff was saying about sales figures for the big cosmetic houses. At the moment, all publicity is good publicity.”
Less than an hour later, Izzie had reason to wish she hadn’t tempted fate with that rash comment. They were at the office and feeling pretty smug. Having signed their part of the contract, they felt safe in coming clean with the girls about what was in store for them, although they hadn’t yet said it was a cert. The initial shock at losing their jobs turned to elation as they explained the terms. “So you see,” said Izzie, “you’d each get the lump sum in addition to your three months’ wages, but they’ll probably be transferring production abroad fairly quickly, so you wouldn’t have to work out the three months anyway.”
“What? Paid for sitting round on our arses? Sounds all right to me.” Karen laughed throatily.
“You can sit on your arse if you want,” chimed in Donna, “I’m going to blow it all on a cruise.”
They were all laughing and talking at once, and Maddy had to put her finger in her ear to block out the noise as she answered the phone. Izzie noticed her problem and ushered the girls back downstairs, with a promise to buy doughnuts at lunchtime by way of celebration. Still laughing, she sat back down and turned to Maddy. But her friend’s white face and even whiter knuckles gripping the receiver wiped the smile right off her. She listened intently to the breathless, one-sided conversation.
“No, of course I’m not denying it. I’m just saying . . . But it’s completely out of context and it’s absolutely unfair to try to . . . No, you listen, please. It’s outrageous to abuse someone’s privacy like . . . This must be illegal. You can’t do this. But why would you do this? I don’t see . . . Is that all you have to say? Well then, no comment.” And she slammed down the receiver.
Izzie was befuddled. “What the hell was that? Crank call?”
Maddy put her elbows on her desk and dropped her head into her hands. “If only. Oh God, Izzie, you’re going to kill me! That was the Courier. Miles Oakley, that sleazeball editor—he says they’ve got a photo of me, taken the other day at home. It was after that meeting with Drake and his lot. I was so knackered. God, why did I do it? I had a ciggie and a glass of wine, and . . . oh, it just gets worse. The kids were outside, and Will was playing on his Game Boy and Florence was dressed up like a little tart, and I was wearing an FCUK T-shirt. Oh, I don’t believe it! The whole image gone in seconds. The bastard photographer must have been up a ladder somewhere.”
“They took a photo of you in the garden? But can they do that? Surely if it’s your garden, it’s private property, isn’t it? What are they going to do with the photo? Surely they’re not going to run it?”
“Yes, and on Monday. Front page, he said, the grubby little toe rag. He said he thought their readers would ‘like to see what we get up to in private.’ He said they’re going to compare all the things we’ve said in public with the reality.”
“Ooh, shit! I hope they haven’t been prowling round our place. They’d have a field day! Oh, but Maddy, I’ve just thought”—Izzie flushed and put her hand up to her mouth in alarm—“Drake won’t have signed by then. I mean, if we only signed yesterday, Hewlitt’s won’t have sent the contracts back to them yet. He’ll have seen the paper—or someone in his organization will before they sign. Do you think they’ll go through with it?”
“No! I don’t know,” Maddy wailed. “I don’t know anything. This could ruin the whole thing. We could end up with nothing. A complete laughingstock. No one will buy the stuff once this hits the newsstands. What have I done?”
Izzie took charge. “Look, I’ll make some coffee. You call Peter. He’ll know what to do. Maybe we can make them delay or something. Get our lawyers onto them.”
Izzie could tell from Maddy’s expression that Peter had not been able to reassure her. “He says it goes to credibility,” she explained. “The brand is based on a concept of integrity—well, we knew that. We worked hard enough to concoct the stupid image. He says without the image, the sales are almost bound to suffer. If Tessutini can’t quantify the damage, they’re just as likely to pull out. He said something about break fees if the transaction doesn’t go ahead, and a thing called Section 151, but I’d kind of phased out by then. I could tell it was bad news though.”
Izzie blew her fringe out of her eyes. “So does this mean we’re going to have to find that warehouse in Rotterdam after all?”
“I don’t think Boîte Bleue will touch us with a disinfected barge pole,” said Maddy bitterly.
“Oooh bum!” said Izzie quietly.
“My sentiments entirely!” Maddy sighed as she sat back down heavily in her chair. “Bum indeed.”
After that, Izzie found it difficult to deal with the low-level elation that the girls were indulging in. Bumping hips together rhythmically as they went about their work and singing along to the radio, they looked so happy, as though someone had given them an unexpected present, or at least the promise of one. And so they had. The only trouble was they were going to have to take it right back again, and soon. Maddy was staring into space, and Izzie didn’t like to disturb her. It could as easily have been her and she didn’t blame Maddy at all. She hoped she knew that, but wasn’t sure how to ask without raising the idea that she did blame her. Suddenly, Maddy jumped up.
“What was I thinking of? I completely forgot to tell you! I’m going away with the kids for the weekend. We’re going to stay with some old friends, and I said we’d get there as early as possible, so I have to go and pack everything up now. Yup, right now or we’ll be late. D’you mind?”
Izzie was slightly taken aback by this abrupt change. “’Course not. Do you good to get away. I really don’t think there’s anything more we can do about this now.”
“No, no. Of course not. Might as well forget about it and hope for the best.”
“Er, yeah. Well, have a nice time. I’ll call you if anything comes up. Do you want me to call Geoff?”
“No. I think Peter’s talking to him now. He’ll call if there’s anything new. I’d better head out. I’ll call you later.”
And off she went. Izzie shook her head, and watched her leave. She hoped she’d be all right. This forced energy and brightness was a bit worrying. A weekend away would probably be the best thing. Izzie hoped the friends would take good care of her. But it wasn’t like Maddy to dash off in the middle of a crisis—she hoped this hadn’t pushed her too far. Her hand hovered over the phone. She wanted to tell someone, ask someone’s opinion. All right—she wanted to speak to Marcus. Was that a sign of something? She couldn’t be bothered to analyze it, though Marcus almost certainly would. All she knew was she needed to hear his voice. She dialed the number.
An hour later, she was back home in the kitchen. She’d given the girls and a rather surprised Lillian the rest of the day off and explained that there might be some press interest. All had agreed stoutly to plead the fifth or at least defend the reputation of PE against the heathen journalists, like Crusaders taking the oath. Their loyalty was touching. So was Marcus’s.
“What we can do, babe, is call round the agencies. See if anyone knows who’s been sniffing round. I’ve got a few contacts at the Courier too, but they probably won’t spill the beans. Give me and hour or so, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
With the bit between his teeth, he was like the Marcus of old, clicking his fingers between calls, scribbling notes, whistling tunelessly, and jabbing out numbers with the end of his very chewed biro. “Paddy? Hello, mate! It’s Marcus Stock. Yeah, I know. Long time, no nothing . . . Listen, mate, I’ve got a bit of a favor to ask. A friend of Izzie’s has got herself well and truly shafted by the Courier. Yeah, same old scumbags. Thing is, the photo was taken round here near where we live. Quite near Oxford, yeah. You gotta come up some time. Melissa and the kids too. Anyway, I was wondering, do you know anyone who’s been out this way lately? Really? Okay, thanks, I’ll try him. Yeah, keep in touch.”
So it went on. Marcus was making contact with people he hadn’t spoken to in years for fear of being rejected, perhaps. Yet no one had brushed him off, as far as Izzie could tell from the one-sided conversation, and lots of them had asked when he’d be in London next. Maybe some good might come of this mess after all. On and on it went. Marcus followed up leads, ran into dead ends, tried again. Izzie went to fetch the kids, leaving him to it. When she returned he was sitting back in the kitchen chair looking smug.
“I think I deserve a cup of tea this time,” he said triumphantly waving his notepad at her. “I think I’ve got a result! Bloke called Pete the Greek. I don’t know his real name—that’s what everyone’s called him for as long as I can remember. I’ve never met him, but I know people who have. He does a lot of this sort of thing, mostly for the tabloids. I’ve got a mobile, but he’s not answering. What do you want to do?”
Izzie shrugged helplessly. “Dunno. What can we do? Could I . . . offer him money, threaten to sue him, give him a knuckle sandwich? You tell me, Marcus—what should I do?”
“Wouldn’t bother with threats.” Marcus got up and started pacing the room, hyped up by the thrill of the chase. “That’ll just piss him off. The newspaper’s certainly paying a fair bit for this. If you can top their offer, he might sell it to you. Trouble is, the Courier won’t take very kindly to him blowing them out at the last minute, so you’ll have to make it worth his while.”
“What do you think? Twenty grand?” Izzie pulled a number out of the air.
“I should think that’d do nicely. All we have to do now is track him down. Hmmm. Hey, d’you fancy a trip to London?”
Izzie’s eyes widened. “Do you mean it? Should we go and find him?”
“Frontal approach is worth a try. And you haven’t got much time, have you? One thing though, love. Drop the Cider with Rosie look, eh? Go for something nice and inconspicuous, like a trenchcoat and dark glasses. Could the kids stay at Maddy’s?”
Izzie shook her head and frowned. “No, she’s run off to stay with friends. She was taking the kids straight from school, I think, so she’ll probably be there already. I might give her a call.”
“No, don’t. Let’s call her when we have some good news. Don’t want to get her hopes up too high. Shall I try Janet Grant, then?”
He busied himself phoning her. This was a new, improved Marcus, sorting out the kids’ needs without being asked. She poured him another cup of tea—he did deserve it.
On Saturday afternoon they dropped the kids off at Janet’s house and drove down to London. They’d arranged to stay with some old friends in Streatham. Shaun, another photographer, had given Marcus his best lead. “His name’s really Pete Kyriako-something or another. No one can ever remember what, so it’s Pete the Greek. He lives over in Tufnell Park, dunno where exactly, but he’s usually at the Flask in Highgate for Sunday lunchtime. They do a mean sausage and mash there and the beer’s good. If he’s not answering his mobile, that’s your best bet. Have you left him a message?”
“Nooo. This is more of an undercover operation,” confided Marcus. “I’ve never even met him but we need to speak to him, face-to-face. What’s he look like?”
“This sounds exciting.” Maz (too graphic-artist-funky to call herself Mary) flicked her long plait over her shoulder and placed a huge bowl of pasta on the table in front of them, and slid onto the polished wooden refectory bench next to Shaun. “He looks a bit like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda. Can we come along? I’d recognize him, and you might want moral support from what you say.”
“Oh, yeah, do come along.” Izzie nodded. “We’ll stand you lunch. And if he’s not there, maybe you’ll recognize someone else there who might be able to help.”
Next morning, slightly the worse for wear, the two couples made their way up to leafy Highgate. Well, not quite so leafy in October but still pretty gorgeous. They were sitting outside at one of the trestle tables in the large triangular forecourt when Maz leaned across and hissed, “Don’t look round. That’s him. With the blonde.”
They all looked round. He did, indeed, look strikingly like Kevin Kline. Not the seedy, furtive criminal-looking type Izzie had imagined. Instead, he was quite a tasty, interesting-looking bloke in jeans, with a Rolex he kept flashing and a very expensive-looking leather jacket, but he was just a little too old for his designer stubble. Kleftiko dressed as lamb?
“How are we going to do this?” Izzie asked suddenly.
Marcus was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t see there’s any way of doing it subtly,” he admitted. “I hadn’t really thought this through, I must admit.” Silence. “Come on, Iz. We can’t waste any more time, let’s just improvise. Have you worked out how much you’re prepared to offer him? Quick, he’s going to the bar. Let’s cut him off on the way.”
They sidled casually toward him as he approached. Marcus opened. “Hi! Pete, isn’t it?”
Pete smiled absently. Great teeth, thought Izzie. “Yeah, that’s right. How’re you doing?”
“Fine thanks. Business good? Can I get you a pint, by the way?”
Pete had that vacant look of someone racking his brains to remember who on earth this was. “Thanks, you’re all right. I’m getting a round in for some people I’m with. Yep, business couldn’t be better thanks, mate. What are you up to now?”
Izzie butted in. “We’re living in the country now. Near Ringford. Ever been out that way?”
He blinked rapidly, looking at Izzie properly for the first time and swallowed hard. “Now, hang on, what’s all this about?”
“Oh, I think you know exactly what it’s about and exactly what we want. Have you got the negative?” Marcus smoothly led him to a quiet table, speaking in a low voice. Izzie followed clutching her bag tightly.
“Why do you want to know?” He was looking distinctly uncomfortable now.
“Well, I think we could make you a better offer. Is it an exclusive with the Courier?”
“Er, kind of
.”
Marcus sighed impatiently. “Well, is it or isn’t it? How much are they paying you?”
Pete laughed shortly. “You don’t really expect me to tell you that?”
“Would ten thousand do it?” Izzie couldn’t keep quiet any longer, and earned herself a glare from Marcus.
“Sorry, love. I can’t do that.” He started to move away. Izzie grabbed his arm. “Twenty, then.”
“You really want this, don’t you? Look, I’ve told you, I can’t make a deal.” He tried to peel her fingers off his sleeve, but she wasn’t letting go.
“Fifty thousand. Please! You can’t do this to us. It’s just not fair.”
He stopped and sighed heavily, puffing his cheeks out, then looked her in the eye and spoke slowly. “You’re not listening. I can’t do it. If it was just the paper, I might be up for it. You’re offering enough. It’s not that. Look, I’ve got nothing against you or your partner. I’m just doing what I’ve been hired to do.”
Izzie let go of his sleeve and her shoulders sagged. “Isn’t there anything . . . ?”
“Are you listening? I said no deal.” Looking back and forth between their shocked faces he got up to leave. “I’ve said too much, but it’ll all be over tomorrow. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about it now. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Nothing personal.” And he went back to the bar.
Izzie and Marcus looked at each other in disbelief. “What’s going on, Marcus? Did you understand any of that?”
“No, I can’t see . . . It sounded as if . . . No, I can’t see what he’s on about.”
“I’ll just try and ring Maddy again. I guess I’ll have to break the news and tell her what he said.”
Goodbye, Jimmy Choo Page 34
