Busy Woman Seeks Wife

by Annie Sanders

  “Oh, Gavin, you can’t blame this one on Alex. It was probably down to me.” Alex looked up, startled at Camilla’s voice. “I probably didn’t hear what she said about the penthouse but she has been rushed off her feet with Italy and all that.”

  “How could I forget? Wasn’t it the wrong airport that time?” Gavin turned to Alex, the hostility obvious in his face. “Camilla shouldn’t take the rap for this—it’s up to you, Alex, as the one in charge, to double-check these things. So are we going to get out of this one?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Alex pulled herself up tall. This was her last shot at self-preservation. “I’ve found her somewhere even better, she will be here and the press will love her. I’ve already had loads of interest and secured an exclusive for Wednesday’s Mail.”

  “And?” he asked, not about to let her get away with anything.

  “Well, I’ll lay on entertainment for her obviously.” Alex made a mental note to sort that. “And best of all, she’ll be thrilled with what she’s wearing. It’s being altered just for her and it’s due to arrive any minute—I’ll show you as soon as it gets here.”

  Someone must have been watching over her because Gavin’s mobile went before he could respond and he went back to his office, waving her away and chatting animatedly, hand to his ear. Alex breathed out.

  “Cam, can you please call the couriers and check the stuff is on its way—and Sanferino’s too, of course? It should have been here by now.”

  “Sure thing.” Camilla picked up her phone.

  Alex slumped down in her seat, feeling achy, almost as if she had the flu. Frankie sauntered slowly over to her desk.

  “Things looking pear-shaped?” he asked quietly. She could smell his skin. She looked down.

  “Big-time. Any ideas?” she muttered.

  “Not really. Peter’s holed up in the meeting room on a conference call. Or at least that’s what he said. If it’s him, he’s playing things very close.”

  Alex fiddled with the seam of her trousers. “Then it must be me and I must be crap.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Camilla came over apologetically. “Er, Alex, the couriers say delivery is due on the twenty-first.”

  “Twenty-first? That’s… Thursday. What?” She bolted out of her chair. “That’s no bloody good. Have you looked out the order? I did it online. There must be a confirmation.” This had to be a mistake. It could be sorted.

  There was a pause as Camilla leaned over her desk, her hand on her computer mouse, searching her e-mail in-box. “Here we are. Yup, hang on, confirmation. Oh. Oh dear.” She clicked off the screen and came over to Alex. “Er,” she said quietly. “It clearly says the twenty-first in response to your e-mail. Do you remember doing that?”

  Later Alex would describe feeling as if all the blood had run out of her body. She could feel goosebumps on her arms, and suddenly she was finding it hard to breathe. “It can’t be,” she whispered. “It can’t. I know I told them the eighteenth.”

  Camilla took her arm. “Oh, Alex, are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  “Shoot me?” She slumped into her chair and started to look back through her own e-mails but there were so many. So much communication, so many messages about the launch. It would take her ages to find the confirmation.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Frankie muttered. “But where exactly is this apparel?”

  “In a factory in Istanbul,” Camilla replied. “Oh dear.” She too sat down hard on the corner of Alex’s desk.

  “What time do you need it by?” Frankie persisted. Alex wished he would be quiet so she could think. She rubbed her temples, where her head pounded. The whole room seemed to have receded, full of tiny people going about their normal day, oblivious to the fact that her world had just collapsed.

  “First thing tomorrow morning at the latest, ready for Gordino to put it on when she arrives in Brixton, but it will take ages to clear customs.” Alex could hear her own voice sound monotonous. “It’s pointless. Oh fuck.”

  Frankie crouched down beside her. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

  Alex ignored him. She was thinking fast. How long did they have? Was it… could she? “Something like this happened once before,” she said slowly. “Not to me, but I remember there was a delay with some zippers. They all had to be changed, and we sent someone over to pick the garments up personally.”

  “Oh, Alex, there’s no time!” Camilla gasped.

  “I’ll go.”

  Alex looked at the expression of determination on Frankie’s face. “Where?” she asked.

  “Istanbul, of course. It’ll be like Midnight Express.”

  In contrast to her desperate mood, Alex found herself smiling. “Oh, Frankie, don’t be daft. You can’t possibly!”

  “Alex is right.” Camilla stood up. “It’s madness, and besides if anyone should go it should be me. I work for the company and, do you know, I think I might even have my passport in my bag.” She began to rummage. “I needed it to pick up a letter from the post office the other day.”

  “No, I can do it. I’ll go.” Frankie moved to get his things, prepared to leave already. “You’re too important to things here, Cam. You can’t be spared. I’m the obvious choice. If I get on a flight this afternoon, I can be there for this evening and back at the latest first thing tomorrow. Okay, Alex?”

  “But—”

  Frankie put his hand on Alex’s arm and looked hard at her. “Trust me, Alex. For once?” And he turned to Camilla. “Let’s keep this from Gavin, hey? Let’s do Alex a favor? Now give me the details, will you, Camilla, and can you let them know I’m on my way?”

  Chapter 39

  Frankie did up his seat belt. He was breathless from the dash back to the flat for his passport, the race to Heathrow, the haste to buy some currency and the run across the concourse to the plane, which now started its whiny roar as it began to move. He smiled thinly at the large woman sitting next to him and attempted to squeeze farther against the wall of the cabin.

  “On holiday, are you?” the woman asked comfortably. “We’re meeting up with some friends and going sailing for a week. Turkey’s wonderful. Have you been there before?”

  Since she didn’t really seem to need any answers to her many questions, Frankie allowed the one-way flow of conversation to give him the space to ask himself what the hell he was doing here. He hated flying, he hated being too hot, he hated not knowing what was expected of him and he hated unexpected changes to his routine. All in all, he couldn’t have dreamed up a worse undertaking. And for what? But he knew the answer already. Alex.

  Something, he wasn’t even sure what yet, had made him as certain as he could possibly be that he had to do this for this tall, complicated woman with the endless brown legs. And he knew he was the only person who could do it for her. So much depended now on the garments being there safely and on time for Gordino and, unqualified though he felt, he knew that no one else could be trusted to do what was right for Alex and her launch.

  Dinner came and went, and he ignored it, willing the plane to go faster. The woman sitting next to him had a little nap, her mouth falling open to allow the sound of soft snoring to escape. Frankie looked out the window at the light beginning to fade, the clouds framing the sunset like a proscenium arch. When they started their descent, Frankie was almost on his feet before the tires touched the runway, and he barged people out of the way to be off the plane first and through customs and arrivals, with his virtually empty gym bag in his hand.

  Frankie’s only images of the Istanbul airport had been indelibly marked into his memory from watching Midnight Express but now it looked Westernized—cool, shiny and marbley. He could have been anywhere. Bolting out the sliding doors into the warm evening air, he jumped into the first available taxi and showed the driver the address for the warehouse, urging him to hurry. They swung into the traffic, and Frankie realized he was leaning forward impatiently. His driver, when he wasn’t turning around to converse with Frankie
in fragmented English with a strong American accent, swerved wildly from lane to lane, sounding his horn constantly. The string of worry beads hanging from the mirror swung like a pendulum ticking away the seconds, and Frankie held on tight. How had he managed to find the only psychopathic driver in the whole of Istanbul? He glanced around, terrified, at the other cars and vans. Which one were they going to collide with? Because it was only a matter of time, that much was obvious. But, he noticed in horror, the other cars were being driven in exactly the same way. They were all covered in dust, all dented, and all hurtling along at breakneck speed.

  It was quite dark by the time the taxi driver deposited him in a wide street with tall buildings on one side, a park on the other. The trip had taken only ten or fifteen minutes and Frankie handed over a muddle of coins and a couple of notes before the driver waved a cheery, “See ya around, pal,” and screeched off into the darkness.

  Frankie was alone. He compared the address that Camilla had printed out for him with the number above the large wooden gateway. So far, so good. But why was the whole building in darkness? Frankie glanced at his watch. Almost eight o’clock, British time. He’d been on the plane for nearly four hours, but it was around two hours later here—closer to ten. Of course the place would be locked up! Why hadn’t he thought of this? He studied Alex’s scribbled sheet of phone contacts she’d pressed into his hand with an awkward “Thanks” before he left the office, then pulled his phone from his pocket and started dialing. He was beginning to panic by the time the third number he tried was finally answered with a gruff “ ’Alo!”

  “Hello? Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, of course I speak English. Who is this?”

  Frankie sighed with relief. “Right. You don’t know me, but I’ve got a problem…”

  Twenty minutes later, a battered Peugeot braked abruptly at the other end of the now totally deserted street and a short, compact man got out, looking around. He returned Frankie’s questioning stare, pointed at him and gestured incomprehension, then waved his hand up and down, palm downward. Frankie walked cautiously towards him.

  “Frankeee?” he called. “Is this you? What are you doing down there? The warehouse is here. Come.” Relieved, Frankie hurried to meet him. “I’m Melik,” he said abruptly, clasping Frankie’s hand. “This is very strange! Why did you not call me to say that you were coming?”

  Frankie sighed in exasperation. “I thought someone had. Well, let me explain…” As he told him what had happened, Melik’s face first cleared, then fell.

  “So no problem with the special apparel. That is good. But this is not regular. I don’t understand this, why you are coming in the night? We can always deliver when you ask us. This should not be necessary.”

  “I’m afraid you may have been given the wrong information,” Frankie explained diplomatically. “But the problem is, the launch is tomorrow morning. If I can’t get back in time with the clothes, it’s going to be a disaster.”

  Melik thought for a moment, then raised his head sharply and clicked his tongue. “No! There will be no disaster. I have met Alex Hill. She has been here to visit our operation and she knows she can rely on me.”

  The stocky man led the way to a modern building on the corner and took a large bunch of keys from his pocket. After a complicated series of operations, he swung open a door and darted in to switch off the alarm. As he did so, a loud swooping wail rose into the air around them. Frankie looked around in fright as the amplified sound came at them from all directions. Melik smiled. “It is the call to prayer. Welcome to Istanbul, Frankie!”

  The building must have been air-conditioned all day, because it was still cool inside and stepping in from the heat of the street was a blessed relief. Frankie followed Melik through a series of darkened offices into a huge, high-ceilinged hangar of a building that hadn’t been visible from the street. Metal racks stretched in every direction, stacked with boxes, and meter after meter of neatly hung garments covered with clear plastic lined the walls. Melik walked over to a computer terminal and booted it up. “You are new to the company,” he stated, rather than asked.

  “Is it that obvious?” Frankie asked. Melik just smiled pityingly and turned back to the computer. He searched the screen, nodded and walked off into the semi-gloom.

  “Come with me, Frankie,” he called over his shoulder.

  Melik had located the consignment straightaway, and he tapped a few keys on the computer until a mechanized arm slid along a gantry on the ceiling that Frankie hadn’t noticed. Smoothly, the bundle was lifted from the rack and lowered gently to the ground, where Melik unhooked it and checked the numbers on the labels against the screen of a palmtop scanner. Then he ran the scanner over the bar codes and nodded slowly.

  “Yes, you see. The dates have been changed. First it was for Monday, then for Thursday. But we have it all on the computer so we can change the day it goes out. This is very efficient for us. You see? The e-mail comes in—we can change straightaway!”

  Frankie was staring at the little screen in disbelief. “Hang on, Melik. Do you still have the e-mail on your system? Could I see it?”

  “Of course! Look—here it is.” Melik stepped to the side and showed Frankie the screen. The e-mail was from Alex all right. It had her name on it. Frankie frowned in puzzlement. But Alex had claimed not to know anything about it. What on earth was going on?

  Melik pointed to the screen proudly. “You see! Only Friday night, she changed her mind to Thursday. But with our computer, we can change straightaway. What a shame she get it wrong this time. But now I drive you back to airport. But here. Before we go, take a couple of T-shirts from the new range. Slight seconds but free and off the house! One for you and special for your lady. You have a lady, don’t you?” He roared with laughter from the belly. “Come on, Frankie! No time to waste!”

  Frankie folded the clothes carefully and zipped them safely away in the holdall he’d brought with him, then walked ahead of Melik, retracing their steps to the offices. Something was gnawing at him. There was something… Then he stopped and Melik cannoned into him. “What is wrong, Frankie? What is it?”

  Somewhere in his head a penny very slowly started to drop. On Friday night, Alex had certainly not been in the office sending e-mails. She’d been in bed with him.

  Chapter 40

  In between weighing out flour and butter, Saff kept trying to call Frankie, but each time she was told his phone was switched off. All she wanted to know was if he’d gotten the part. Did the lack of response mean good news or bad? She tried to imagine both scenarios—Frankie still drunk after hearing he had the part and Frankie dead from suicide having heard he hadn’t. She’d call the Bean. She’d know.

  “No, darling, not a dickey bird,” Alex’s mother breathed down the phone. “In fact, I’ve tried him a couple of times too. I’m dying to know myself. The poor boy must be beside himself waiting.”

  “Have you heard from Alex?” Saff asked lightly. It had been days now and Saff had given up trying to leave messages. It was her birthday soon so perhaps Alex might get in contact with her then. They always tried to share a bottle of wine at least, if Alex wasn’t away. It was a tradition really. A birthday without Alex and a bottle of bubbly wouldn’t be right.

  “Yes, dear, she came over at the weekend. She’s frantically busy of course and I thought she looked awfully tired, poor dear. But she is so terribly independent she just won’t show a chink of weakness. She really could do with someone to care for her. Not that twit of an American, who’s no use to her being on the other side of the Atlantic and who’s more interested in his rippling muscles. No, she needs someone to make her feel like a woman. Every woman needs to be made love to, to be worshipped—and often.”

  Saff giggled. It was about the last thing she could ever have imagined her own mother saying.

  “Now how is the cooking going, dear? Have you had any orders yet?”

  Saff sighed and looked at the chaos of muffin trays and mixing b
owls on her kitchen table. “It’ll never work. The delis Ella and I tried were enthusiastic enough—when Ella finally bullied them into tasting things. Crikey, she’s formidable when she wants to be. She told one chap that I’d cooked for Princess Diana for goodness’ sake! But the minute they found out I was doing it at home, well, they started going on about health and safety and how I couldn’t just bake cakes in my kitchen.”

  The Bean snorted loftily. “Perfect rubbish. Think of all the things we ate during the war when I was a child. All fit as fiddles. Never even heard of salmonella. Alex grew up eating mud pies. Never did her any harm.”

  “Exactly,” Saff replied, thinking about her great career plan, which had now disappeared down the drain. “So now I’m making forty muffins for sports day on Thursday. At least the headmistress is grateful for my efforts.”

  The Bean said a warm goodbye and promised to let her know if she heard from Frankie. Saff was wiping flour from the table and thinking about starting supper when Millie strolled in, her feet slipping out of her sequined pumps and her chubby little tummy peeping out between a pink cheerleader’s skirt and stripy top. She had white beads around her neck and had obviously been experimenting with the free makeup from the cover of a magazine.

  “Hi, darling. What you up to?”

  “I’m bored.”

  “I’m just about to start supper. I’m doing your favorite pasta. Want to help me? You love doing that.”

  Millie contemplated for a moment. “Nah thanks. My friend Lydia says domestic chores demean women,” she said and strolled out of the room.

  Max stood back in the doorway as she passed. “Did I hear that right?” he said as his daughter walked upstairs.

  “I think so!” Saff started to chop an onion. “Glad to hear feminism is alive and kicking!”

  “She’d better ditch that idea if she wants to find herself a husband,” Max tutted and sashayed out of the way to avoid the tea towel his wife flicked at him. Saff laughed as he left the room, but a shadow of sadness crept over her. That was it then. The days had gone when Millie would have pulled up a stool next to her and helped by tipping ingredients into a bowl or stirring a pan. Now she was a tweenager, a woman-child who didn’t need the silly ministrations of her mother. Even Millie seemed to know that a woman should find more to life than baking. Tipping the chopped onions into the heated olive oil, Saff stirred them more vigorously than she meant to.