by Wendy Holden
Cassandra sighed inwardly and gazed glassily at the journalist. The pre-interview nerve-soothing double gin had not only affected her concentration, but had dealt a temporary death blow to her ability to see straight.
“Sorry, can you rephrase that?” she asked.
The journalist looked astonished. “Er, yes. I just asked you what the name of your son was.”
“Zachary Alaric St. Felix Knight.” Alaric St. Felix had been the dashing hero of Impossible Lust, in whose heady, thrilling, champagne-and-cash-flooded wake (and particularly the former) Zak had been conceived. Repeating Alaric’s name only reinforced Cassandra’s awareness that she had so far failed to invent a hero to rival him.
“How do you cope with him?” the journalist asked next.
Cassandra’s heart skipped a beat. What exactly had this woman heard about Zak? Surely she didn’t know about the dreadful events of yesterday. “Theft, madam, is a criminal offence no matter whose son you are,” that ghastly little Boots store detective had snapped. “How could you?” Cassandra had furiously admonished Zak all the way home. “Stealing like a common criminal.”
It wasn’t the criminal bit she minded—heaven knew, half the squillionaires in the City were crooks and she was fervently hoping Zak might join their ranks one day. It was the common. And from Boots, for Christ’s sake. If Zak had to steal, he could at least have chosen Harvey Nicks.
“Cope?” she asked suspiciously. Was this woman trying to catch her out?
“Well, we’ve talked about your bestsellers and how you write them, but we haven’t touched on how you also manage to run a house this size and have a family life. Not to mention how you keep yourself in such great shape.”
Relief swept through Cassandra. This was more like it. “Oh, well, I find getting up at five and doing a couple of hours on the treadmill generally does the trick,” she simpered. “I try and read all the papers at the same time.”
The journalist looked astonished. “But surely you have some help with something? Do you have a nanny even?”
Cassandra shook her head vigorously. “No,” she smiled. “No help at all.”
“Why on earth not?”
Because that stupid fat Anna girl had had the unbelievable cheek to practically beg for the job and then announce, cool as a Decleor face pack, that she’d think about it, Cassandra thought viciously whilst training a look of melting sincerity on the journalist. “I suppose I can’t bear to think of my child being brought up by anyone else but me,” she said silkily. “It would be desperately sad to miss these crucial years when his character is forming, don’t you think? He’s so independent, Zak. Such an amazing little personality already.”
The journalist nodded sympathetically; this argument, Cassandra was gratified to see, went down much better with her than it did with Mrs. Gosschalk. For Zak had taken full advantage of the interregnum in nannies and had, besides the shoplifting, recently been conspicuous by his absence at school.
The result was that the headmistress’s office had been on the phone again complaining about his behaviour. Cassandra’s blustering defence that it was proof of her son’s extraordinarily entrepreneurial outlook and incredible creative spirit had cut no ice with Mrs. Gosschalk, although she had conceded “extraordinary” and “incredible” were accurate descriptions.
“And then of course,” said the journalist, “you’re half of a high-profile marriage.”
Half, thought Cassandra indignantly. If you were talking profile, she was a good two-thirds of it, thank you very much. What on earth had Jett done this side of the Boer War? She very much doubted the re-formed Solstice would be a stadium-filler. If the tepid press reaction their reunion had prompted so far was anything to go by, they’d be lucky to be a stocking filler.
“Yes. Jett and I are truly blessed,” Cassandra cooed through gritted teeth, “because, apart from being lovers, we’re such good friends. We’re very close. There’s hardly ever a cross word…”
The sound of the slammed front door interrupted her musings. “Sandra?” roared a voice. “Where the hell are you? You’ve got to get someone else to take that goddamn brat to school. He’s doing my goddamn head in.”
The journalist stared in astonishment.
“In here, darling,” trilled Cassandra, faking a sudden attack of coughing in the forlorn hope of drowning Jett’s yells. The journalist’s thin lips curved slowly upward.
“Hang on, I’m getting a goddamn drink first,” yelled Jett, thundering down the stairs to the kitchen. “Zak made me park the goddamn Rolls round the corner again,” he bellowed from below. “Said he was embarrassed in case the other kids saw it. And when I told him he should be goddamn pleased, not embarrassed, that his father had achieved enough to have a Rolls,” Jett continued, his voice approaching up the kitchen stairs, accompanied by the rattling of ice cubes, “Zak said he was embarrassed because the Rolls was so uncool and all the other kids’ parents had groovy four-wheel drives.”
Cassandra had now coughed so much her face was red and streaming. That her efforts had been utterly in vain was obvious from the way the journalist was checking the red Record button of her tape recorder and scribbling maniacally on her pad. As Jett’s raddled visage appeared round the sitting-room door, Cassandra was momentarily torn in deciding which of them she wanted to murder the most.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, looking from Cassandra to the journalist. “Not another of your goddamn Mystic Meg sessions, for Christ’s sake.”
“If you’re enquiring as to whether this is one of my metamor-phic technique lessons, then the answer is no,” said Cassandra, icily. “I’m being interviewed.”
The revelation that he was in close proximity to a publicity opportunity had a more electric effect on Jett than the famous incident in Athens, Georgia, 1978, when his guitar had been accidentally (or was it? he was still not sure) plugged into the mains. Even by his optimistic lights, the reaction of the music press to the news Solstice were re-forming could hardly be described as ecstatic, with the result that “Sex and Sexibility” needed more of a push than overdue quadruplets. He could not afford to let golden opportunities like this pass.
“Hi. Jett St. Edmunds,” Jett said, stretching out a hand to the journalist. Not bad, he thought. A bit skinny and pasty perhaps. “And you are?” he asked, pulling in his stomach and moving closer.
“Brie de Benham. Daily Telegraph.”
“Hi, Brie. Know the name,” Jett drawled, chewing on a nonexistent piece of chewing gum.
Yes, of course you do, Cassandra only just stopped herself saying. From the Waitrose cheese counter. She could spot Jett’s thunder-stealing game a mile off. She was aware that “Sex and Sexibility” was hardly lined up to be the Christmas number one, but she’d be damned if it got publicity, however badly needed, at the expense of her new book.
“How’s it going?” Jett asked, fixing Brie with his most charismatic stare.
“Fine,” Brie smirked. “Miss Knight has been telling me how she gets up at five and reads all the newspapers while she’s working out in the gym.”
Jett stared at his wife, who returned his gaze unblinkingly. “Gets up at five?” he chuckled. “Oh yes, she gets up at five, all right. Five in the goddamn afternoon, that is. And working out? The only thing of Sandra’s that gets regular exercise is her goddamn credit card.”
In the hall, the telephone began to ring. Both Jett and Cassandra held their ground, locking eyes, neither willing to give up the valuable field of potential publicity to the other. “Phone’s ringing,” smirked Jett at his wife. “Probably that goddamn Gosschalk chick. She’s never off the blower.”
Silently telling herself she was doing it for her son, Cassandra gritted her teeth and stalked out of the room. Jett promptly sat down on the sofa beside Brie de Benham, who immediately rammed her elbows together to make the most of her skinny cleavage.
“Ass
Me Anything,” he breathed. Might as well get in a plug for the album straightaway.
“OK.” Brie switched on her tape recorder again. “Is it true that Jett St. Edmunds isn’t your real name and you’re really called Gerald Sowerbutts?”
“What? What are you goddamn talking about?”
“You said to ask you anything.”
“Ass me anything. Name of the new goddamn album.”
“Oh. Right. Well, anyway, is it true? About the name?”
“Of course it bloody isn’t,” snarled Jett. “I’m called St. Edmunds because I come from there.”
“From Bury St. Edmunds?” At least, he thought, she’d got off the Gerald bit.
“You gottit, baby.”
This was, in fact, merely the version of the truth preferred by the record company who, having decided to ritz up Jett’s Christian name, completed the exercise by surnaming him after the town where their A&R man first discovered him performing “House of the Rising Sun” a capella to an audience of two at a bus stop. Jett had objected to the name at first because he thought the town was pronounced Bury Street Edmunds, but preferred the story, as well as the rest of the tricky subject of his origins, to remain cloaked in mystery.
“And do you ever take your sunglasses off?”
Through the mirrored shades Jet invariably wore to do everything but sleep in, he saw Brie looking at him coolly. “Take them off?” He laughed theatrically. “Honey, I’m in showbiz.” Brie smirked.
“Is it true what I’ve heard about you women journalists?” Jett murmured, moving his mouth close to her ear. “That you keep vibrating pagers in your knickers so you get a thrill when someone calls you?” He placed a hand heavy with silver skull rings on her thin, black-nyloned knee and began to work it slowly up her thigh. Hearing the phone slam back down in the hall, he hastily took it off again.
Cassandra swept back into the room looking triumphant. “Thank God,” she declaimed. “That girl’s finally seen sense. She’s moving in tomorrow morning.”
“What girl?” asked Jett, looking hopeful.
“The fat one who inexplicably lives in Mayfair. She’s coming to be the nanny.” Joy was not a regular visitor to Cassandra’s fearful heart, but now she positively fizzed with it. No more interminable games of Monopoly with Zak, although it was gratifying how good he was at it. No more Harry bloody Potter at bedtime. Best of all, no more calls from Mrs. Gosschalk.
“The nanny?” echoed Brie, faintly mocking. “So you’re getting some help after all.” Cassandra did not like the tone of her voice.
“Not at all,” she snapped. “This girl is an Oxbridge graduate. She is coming to be my assistant. It’s just that,” Cassandra added in an undertone, “she’s going to be assisting me in rather more ways than she bargained for.”
***
The following morning, Anna let herself out of Seb’s flat for the last time. As she headed for the bus stop and the Kensington-bound No. 10, she worked out that probably the most valuable thing she possessed was an old beaver coat which had a marked tendency to moult. It had been the only thing Seb had ever given her. Apart, that was, from an inferiority complex the size of Manchester.
Her recent emotional traumas, however, had not remotely affected her ability to be everywhere far too early. It made sense in a way; she had always suspected that her tendency to be unfashionably punctual had sprung from a lack of self-esteem. Following Seb’s recent antics, it was surprising she wasn’t even earlier—Cassandra had told her to present herself and her belongings at eight o’clock sharp, and here she was at a positively devil-may-care five to.
For reassurance more than warmth, Anna huddled further into the depths of the tatty coat. Seb had told her it gave her a Russian air. Doubtless, she thought sourly, he had meant less Anna Karenina than headscarved babushka with wrinkles deep enough to rappel down. Bastard.
Anna lifted the fountain-pen shaped knocker and let it crash back against the door. Following some vague sounds of shouting from within, it was opened by a man wearing studded black leather boots and a T-shirt bearing the Dayglo green legend, “My Probation Officer Went To London And All I Got Was This F***ing T-Shirt.” Given its thinness and his age, his hair was longer than seemed advisable; his creased and baggy face was less lived in than marked for demolition.
“Your dog’s obviously very fond of you.” He looked pointedly at her upper thighs.
Anna glanced at her legs in mingled panic and fury. The coat had been shedding all over her. Her best Joseph trousers were covered in short black hairs.
“Oh, its not a dog,” Anna said. “That’s my beaver.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.
“Well, I can see we’re going to get on splendidly,” the man remarked, a broad grin splitting his stubbly face. He thrust out a hand. “You must be Anna. I’m Jett St. Edmunds, Sandra’s husband.” The palm that greeted Anna was as hot and moist as rice pudding. And rice pudding was one of the few—very few—desserts that Anna had never liked.
“Stick your bags in the hall. Sandra’s in there.” Beckoning her in, Jett gestured at the door of what Anna assumed to be the sitting room. “She’s not,” he added, with a conspiratorial wink, “in a very good mood.”
Anna entered the vast white sitting room to be greeted by the sight of a bathrobed Cassandra prone on a chaise longue. She was wearing a sleep mask that failed to disguise that, beneath it, her expression was thunderous. Beside her on the floor lay a copy of the Daily Telegraph.
Cassandra raised herself a little. “You bastard,” she hissed. “How dare you come in here after what you’ve done. You’ve ruined everything.”
Anna swallowed, scared as well as confused. “Um, your husband told me…”
Cassandra whipped off her mask and stared at her in fury. “Oh, it’s you,” she said grudgingly. “At last. I’ve got to go out to an extremely important meeting.”
Rather like those people who die and come back to life, Anna had a vague impression of lots of brilliant white. Rugs, cushions, curtains—apart from the two cowskin sofas, all was white. The floorboards were pale and interesting, as perhaps they were in heaven, Anna thought. Heaven, after all, was bound to be stylistically unimpeachable.
A small boy suddenly burst shouting into the room and stopped stock still when he saw Anna. He regarded her with approximately the same level of warmth and enthusiasm generally accorded to a heap of dog faeces. After one has just stepped in it.
“This,” said Cassandra triumphantly, her froideur melting like ice-cream in the sun, “is Zak.”
The boy wore grey tweed plus fours, a matching short jacket, black boots with buttons on the side, and, above his thick white-blond basin cut, a ribboned straw boater. He bore an equally close resemblance to his mother and the pre-Ekaterinburg Czarevitch.
“Don’t you look wonderful?” smiled Anna encouragingly. “Very Railway Children.”
“What’s Railway Children?” demanded the boy.
Cassandra smiled indulgently. “I’m afraid, Anna, that the only railway Zak is familiar with is the first class Eurostar to Paris. But St. Midas’s uniform is splendid, isn’t it? Everyone recognises it—let’s face it, there’s no point shelling out four thousand a term otherwise, is there?”
“I suppose not,” Anna agreed, faintly puzzled. She had always imagined high school fees reflected the quality of the teaching rather than the complexity of the uniform. And had Midas really been a saint?
“One of the governors,” Cassandra added, “recently tried to vote to have Edwardian underwear as well but some of us felt that was a little, well, excessive. I believe”—she dropped her voice—“that the gentleman in question is under investigation by the Kensington police at the moment…But it’s a marvellous school. Very media. Half the BBC top brass send their children there, not to mention practically every national newspaper editor.” She
flashed Anna a conspiratorial grin. “The opportunities for networking are excellent.”
“That must be very useful for you,” Anna remarked politely.
Cassandra’s face froze. “Not for me,” she snapped. “For him. You can never start too early, you know. After all, the children at St. Midas’s now will probably be shaping the future of the country in twenty years’ time.”
Anna shot a glance at Zak who had by now climbed on the cowskin sofa and was jumping maniacally up and down on it with his boots on. It was not a comforting thought. Aware he was being watched, Zak then leapt down with a clatter on to the wooden floorboards and started kicking Anna’s handbag with the tip of his boot. “I’m David Beckham,” he shouted.
“Don’t do that, darling,” Cassandra murmured, as Anna bent and pulled her bag out of the way. “Those boots are very expensive.”
“Is she my new nanny?” Zak pouted, looking sulkily at Anna.
“Yes,” said Cassandra crisply.
“Not exactly,” said Anna at the same time.
“Sort of,” Cassandra compromised, giving Anna a dazzling, don’t-argue-with-me smile.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“She’s not very pretty,” said Zak loudly, staring boldly at Anna. “But she’s got big tits. So you won’t need to send her to the hospital like Imelda, Mummy.”
Another uncomfortable silence. Bubbling under with rage, Anna felt she could not let this pass.
“What does he mean?” she asked. Cassandra had reddened slightly.
“Oh, he’s referring to an operation one of his former nannies had,” Cassandra said with a rather forced lightness. “That’s enough, darling,” she mouthed.
“Mummy wanted to have a tit job but didn’t dare,” Zak announced loudly. “So she made Imelda have one first to see what it looked like and to see if it hurt.”
Anna was so astonished she forgot she was angry. Meanwhile, the unspeakable brat was speaking again.
“Has Daddy tried to shag you yet?” he demanded excitedly, fiddling covertly with his genitals through his pocket. “Don’t worry. He will. He even shagged Imelda. Particularly after the tit job.”
