“Oh, Alex, this stress isn’t good for you,” Camilla had said soothingly. “You look all wrung out.”
“My, thanks,” Alex had snorted, though she knew Camilla was right. Her mother had been telling her almost every evening when she got home that her hair was lank and her skin was pale, begging Alex to follow her example and take things easy. Over the past few weeks the Bean had certainly benefited from her diet of fresh air and day trips, but for Alex the opportunity to relax was laughable. Nor did it help that, despite giving Ella money to take her mother out—a ruse she hoped would keep her mother’s spending in check—she had found a credit card bill stuffed in her mother’s dressing-gown pocket. She knew from what she had been wearing at the dinner party that she’d obviously been shopping, but Christ! Did it have to be Sloane Street? It would have to wait until she was paid before Alex could settle up that one.
“I hope you’ve got yourself a holiday booked for when it’s all over,” Camilla had said during two minutes between meetings. “You need a break.”
“Haven’t even had time to think about it,” Alex sighed. “Though Todd’s mentioned going over to the States to stay with him, but frankly I’ve been on so many bloody planes recently I’d just like a week in Clacton. Actually Clapham would do.”
So a morning in searingly hot Milan was a bit unexpected, and she felt displaced from where she ought to be, guilty that she hadn’t managed to persuade the agent on the phone and concerned that when she did finally get to see him, he’d say no and it would all have been for nothing.
Two lattes and some expensive peanuts later, her mobile finally rang with the summons across the road to Corniani’s office, which had leather doors and was blissfully air-conditioned and full of exquisitely beautiful women. They sat behind black desks and were preserved, like precious flowers, from wilting in the sun by Venetian-blinded windows. All over the taupe-painted walls were moody fashion photographs of equally moody models, many of them Bettina herself. Five quid her hair never went lank, thought Alex sulkily.
Corniani, in shirtsleeves, perfectly cut trousers and shiny loafers, greeted her in a waft of cologne, and with as much warmth as he probably showed his cleaner. “Okay, she says she’ll do it,” he barked at her in impeccable English once he was back behind his giant desk. He barely looked at her and certainly didn’t ask her to sit down. “She will arrive the night before from Rome and you will fly her first class. She can only give you an hour. A few things: she will only ever drink mineral water from Switzerland, and she also bathes in it. Make sure the hotel knows. She only stays at Claridge’s, of course, and only the Brook Penthouse suite. It goes without saying. And Irish linen sheets. My people will give your people the itinerary, including what she eats for breakfast.” He then mentioned the fee.
Bastard. Alex stepped out again into the sunshine. Bloody bastard. He could have told me all that over the sodding telephone, including the extortionate fee that would see a small African country out of debt. Alex hailed a taxi for the airport, so angry that she stared resolutely out the window all the way there, ignoring the driver’s attempts to practice his English.
“Alex Hill,” she almost shouted at the check-in desk, and handed over her passport and tapped her fingers on the desk. The British Airways girl’s eyes scanned the screen in front of her. “No, there’s no one of that name.”
“Flight for London? There must be!” Alex leaned around to look at the screen and the girl put her hand over it protectively and frowned. “I’m very sorry, madam, I have no one of that name booked onto the flight.”
When someone finally answered the phone on Camilla’s desk it was Peter. “She’s gone out for her lunch break and her mobile is here on her desk. She said she was off to the dentist. Not another problem surely?” he drawled smugly. “Anything I can do?” God he was irritating, with his constant desire to catch her out. She wouldn’t ask for his help if she were on fire.
“Well, you could get me out of bloody Italy.”
“Oh dear. Are you stuck?”
Camilla wasn’t back at her desk until after three, by which point Alex was apoplectic. “I did tell you, Alex, but maybe you weren’t listening. I couldn’t get you on the Heathrow flight from Milan Linate, so I booked you on one from Turin. It’s only about ninety miles away. There was an airport transfer at eleven.” She paused. “Oh dear, you must have missed that. I did explain that it was difficult getting the right flights at such short notice.” She paused again. “You could try Milan Malpensa?”
Alex could feel the panic rising. “Camilla, you’ll have to cancel the PR briefing.”
“It’s awfully short notice.”
It was and also very unprofessional. But someone had to be there. “Can you handle it?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can,” said Camilla warmly, and Alex, frantically scanning the departures board for some way out, outlined where her notes were and what she had been going to say.
“Cam, you need to stress the USP and of course the Bettina Gordino scoop. Big it up, Camilla.”
“Of course I will,” said Camilla. “Trust me, Alex.”
Alex smiled and let her shoulders drop. “Of course I do. You’ll be great—better than I would be probably. Oh and Cam, call Claridge’s and book the Brook Penthouse for the night before the launch. Call me later if you need anything else explained. With a bit of luck I might just make it in time.”
She didn’t. The woman at the Linate information desk had been so slow scanning flights that, when she eventually tracked one leaving soon from Malpensa, Alex had to leg it out of the terminal to squeeze onto a roasting shuttle bus. Couldn’t these stupid idiots sense her haste? Just her luck to get the only unaggressive driver in Italy. Seventy-five sweaty minutes later, she pulled her skirt up over her knees and dashed across the concourse to the check-in desk. To be told the flight had closed. She could try the information desk? Ciao.
Over there things were even slower and the queue slumped in defeat. Completely despondent now, Alex left a message on her answering machine at home to tell her mother she’d either be very late or would have to stay overnight. By the time the man in front of her in the information queue had settled his diatribe about his flight delays, the man behind the counter had lost interest and suggested she fly to Dublin, finally tracing a flight that left shortly to Gatwick. Via Geneva.
Alex handed over her credit card and winced.
“Now concentrate, Saff dear. I’ve explained it twice already. That’s called the ante. It’s the minimum bet that each of us has to put in before we can start a new hand.”
Saff shook her head and put two more matchsticks in the middle of the table. It had taken some persuasion to talk the Bean out of using real money—Frankie had looked panic-stricken when she’d opened her purse—and the Bean had sniffed dismissively. To her this was clearly a Mickey Mouse poker school.
“Now, dears. How do we stand?” She peered at her tally sheet over her glasses. “Frankie, you have won two hundred thousand.”
Frankie groaned. “God, I wish.”
“Saff? Good grief! You’re up half a million. Must be beginner’s luck. Now I’ll deal.”
The three of them studied their hands in silence. Saff’s wasn’t brilliant. “What time is Alex back?” she asked as she sorted the pairs. These poker sessions were so much fun, but there was a slight feel of unease in Saff’s stomach.
“Oh not till very late. Maybe not even until tomorrow. Some holdup in Italy I gather. She left a message.” The Bean was peering intently at her cards. “What a life that girl has. I do love Milan, though it’s not a patch on Rome of course. I had the most divine Italian lover once—”
“Oi!” Frankie admonished. “That’s underhand tactics designed to put us off. For that you can make some more tea. Regard it as physical therapy.” And he added his matchsticks to the pile.
It had been a long time since Alex had folded herself into an economy seat—business class being one perk of frequent travel—and by th
e time they’d landed, twice, she felt she’d gone long-haul. She’d certainly gone the distance with the man beside her, who was keen she know all about his battle with his weight—a losing one from where she sat—his Jack Russell called Madonna, and the problems he had in establishing relationships with women. It was early evening by the time she landed at Gatwick and, looking at her watch, she knew the meeting would be long over. She’d go straight home. She jumped on the Gatwick Express and, ignoring the request on the window sticker not to use her mobile and the filthy looks from the woman beside her, she tried Camilla, whose phone went straight to voice mail. Oh hell. Alex rubbed her eyes. She was so tired. This launch was really taking it out of her. Why did it all have to be so last-minute? There seemed to be no time for anything. Ever. She felt guilty about her friends—thank God Saff was such a brick. She felt guilty about her love life, which was so sporadic as to be virtually pointless, despite Todd’s demands. She felt guilty about work, because she hadn’t been there when she should have been thanks to that precious agent, and she felt guilty that her relationship with her mother was reduced to a brief chat between Alex’s coming home late from work and her leaving early in the morning. It must be how some men felt towards their wives.
Alex looked out the window. She had to tackle the money issue with her mother soon, but she knew that bailing her out was partly driven by guilt. If Alex was able to spend more time with her, not only could she keep tabs on her spending, she’d have a right to be tougher with her. By being so busy and employing someone else to care for the Bean, she had abrogated that right and was literally paying the price.
“You bastard!” screeched Saff, tossing another handful of peanuts into her mouth. “I was sure you were bluffing!”
Frankie scooped up his matchstick winnings in triumph. “It’s the actor in me. I always thought I’d make a great James Bond. Now, who’d like a drink?”
Saff looked at her watch. “I ought to go in a minute. The children will need picking up.”
“Surely you’ve time for a quick one? Oh, wouldn’t a dry martini be heavenly! The most elegant drink, don’t you think?” The Bean put her hand to her chest dreamily. “I remember I had—”
“Don’t tell me!” protested Frankie, opening another bottle of white. “You first drank one in Monte Carlo with Omar Sharif as he declared his undying love for you?”
“How did you guess?” she twinkled, and the three of them dissolved with laughter again.
By the time she turned the corner into her road, Alex could smell her own armpits and her feet hurt. She heaved against the flat door, glad she’d gotten back sooner than her worst estimate, the prospect of a glass of the coolish bottle of Sauvignon blanc she had in the paper bag from Rajesh’s shop making her mouth water. She kicked open her bedroom door to dump her bag.
“Hi, Mum,” she called over her shoulder, easing off her shoes and wiggling her toes. “Sorry I didn’t call again—nightmare of a day, total nightmare.” She padded over to the sitting-room door and pushed it open. “I’ve been halfway round…”
The tableau in front of her was like something from a spaghetti Western: her mother in a white T-shirt and one of Alex’s running visors keeping her hair from her eyes. Next to her, Saff, her hair tied up in a loose ponytail. And beside Saff, the man from the job interview, the one with the very distinctive face. They were all sitting on the floor around her coffee table, which was strewn with playing cards, the contents of a box of matches and three full wineglasses. On each face was a whole gamut of expressions from disbelief to utter horror.
“This looks like fun!” Alex was racking her brains, and couldn’t work out what the guy was doing here—what was his name again?—and what was he doing with her mother? “Are you leading everyone astray, Mum, teaching them to gamble?” she asked uncertainly, playing for time.
“Hello, dear.” The Bean jumped to her feet now. “We weren’t really expecting you. Er… there’s no supper though I’m sure Frankie can get you some.” There was a pause, filled only by Saff’s gasp.
Frankie, yes, that was his name. But why would he get her supper? “Has Ella gone home?” she asked the faces in front of her. All three were standing now and in complete silence, looking at Alex somehow expectantly. It was a look she hadn’t seen since she was sixteen and had walked without knocking into her boyfriend’s study at college to find him sitting very close to Lydia Adams. Something was deeply wrong.
“Ella doesn’t come here, does she?” She had phrased the question before it was fully formed in her mind.
There was no response, except Saff coughing quietly and shuffling her feet. Frankie was the first to speak. “No,” he said, looking directly at Alex. “No, Ella doesn’t come here. She couldn’t. She got another job. I’m her brother and I’ve been looking after your mother, and I have to say it’s been a delight.”
Alex looked at her mother. Perhaps he’d lied to protect her for some reason. “Is this true?”
“Well, yes, darling.” The Bean pulled off her visor and put it down next to the poker chips. “But he’s been lovely. We’ve had such fun, haven’t we, Frankie? But, Alex, we didn’t want you to worry—you’ve got so much going on, darling.” She came forward and put her hand on Alex’s arm.
Alex suddenly felt filled with utter fury. “Don’t touch me,” she said in as controlled a voice as she could manage.
The Bean snatched her hand away. Alex dragged her eyes over to Saff. “And you? How long have you known about this?”
“Um.” Saff looked down at the floor. “Awhile, but”—she looked up—“not that long, and we didn’t want to upset you—”
“Get out. All of you.”
Her mother put her hand out again.
“Get all you need and get out. I’ll drop the rest round another time. Perhaps your new friend,” she spat, “can drive you home. Now get out.” Alex had to get away and she walked into the kitchen, spying the remains of some sort of salad in a bowl on the side, covered in cling film, and the corkscrew lying with the cork still in it. Her corkscrew.
She braced herself against the worktop and breathed deeply, her head flooding with thoughts. They’d all known about it. The dinner party. They’d all known then. He’d changed her sheets, he’d ironed her underwear. He’d bought her tampons. She’d thought he was a woman.
Behind her she heard the kitchen door open. “Al?”
“Go away, Saff.”
“But, Alex, listen…”
Alex felt the bile rise and she turned. “You’ve lied to me, Saff. You knew he was here—you knew I didn’t want him here—Christ, you were here when I interviewed him and you still didn’t tell me. What the hell do you expect? That I’d be pleased? Now get out of my flat.” She put her hands against Saff’s shoulders and pushed her out the door. “My flat—do you hear? It’s mine.”
Scuttling like rabbits, they gathered their things—Saff her bag, Frankie his backpack and her mother a hastily packed overnight bag. It would serve her bloody well right if she hadn’t had time to get her precious makeup together. Then they stood by the front door, like children waiting to be dismissed from class.
Alex turned on her heel and stalked back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her, and waited, her heart pounding, until she heard the flat door close behind them. Then she picked up a wineglass from the side and hurled it at the wall. Damn them. Damn them all. She picked up the salad and, ramming her foot onto the pedal of the bin, she lobbed the whole thing in, bowl and all. She looked around the room—the bag of peanuts half empty, the bottle of wine, plates that she hadn’t eaten off stacked in the drainer. A life that had gone on without her. In her flat.
She felt violated. It had been a totally shit day, with everything going wrong at work that could go wrong, and what did she come back to find? Her best friend cozied up with her mother and a bloke she specifically hadn’t given a job to. They’d lied. All of them. And there was her mother, a constant bloody drain on everything Alex worked her ba
ckside off to earn and who was now being looked after at Alex’s expense, holding court as always and looking like someone from a speakeasy.
Alex realized she was trembling with anger. It was always the same. “Alex won’t mind. Good old reliable Alex. I’ll take over her friends and laugh at her behind her back, and carry on buying sodding knickknacks and backing useless horses as if I were loaded.” And all the time they had been making themselves at home in her flat, her poky little flat that was all she could afford after her mother had creamed everything to pay off her debts. But still, at least it was hers, and a place where she could be herself, as opposed to some ballbreaking exec or some has-been’s daughter. Or the sad single friend of a yummy mummy who had enough time to play poker all afternoon.
Picking up her bag she headed for her room and, as she passed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. There she was, hollow-eyed and gray with fatigue, her hair lank, a crease of stress between her eyebrows. Who was this woman? Is this what she was working her arse off for? Too busy to live a life, with a second-division relationship and no one she could trust? She could see her lips start to tremble and she turned away in disgust.
Chapter 21
Frankie picked up the phone again, just to check it was working. He checked his e-mails again: a few offers for Viagra, or rather vi*a*gra, a cunning spam ploy his computer seemed powerless to repel. He sighed and looked around at the flat to distract himself. There was nothing left to clean or to tidy. Frankie tugged at his normally neat hair as he paced around the room, leaving it in spikes and tufts. Today’s audition had been his big chance—maybe his one and only big chance. And he had blown it. He couldn’t face anyone—not even Ella at the moment. Her perkiness just made it worse. And she certainly didn’t understand how the whole Alex thing had thrown him. Apart from the obvious loss of income his dismissal caused, Ella didn’t even see it was a problem. At breakfast that morning, she had been positively breezy.
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