Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  An unfortunate coincidence, as Elmhurst Heights was the apartment block Rafferty's cousin, Nigel lived in. With its futuristic concrete and metal design it was the sort of modern development Rafferty most loathed. He was wondering whether some sort of compliment was expected and was still trying to come up with one that sounded vaguely sincere when Dryden saved him the trouble.

  ‘It's featured in most of the top architectural journals, both in this country and abroad,’ he boasted. ‘Rory here did a rather good TV piece on it.’

  Ralph droned loudly on. Rafferty succeeded in tuning him out until Ralph remembered his earlier question and, in the roar necessary to be heard above the music and assorted drink-fuelled conversations, he reminded him, ‘but you still haven't said what exactly it is that you do.’

  ‘I'm an estate agent,’ Rafferty roared reluctantly back into a sudden lull in both music and conversation. A number of heads turned in his direction and scrutinised him. The revelation brought several seconds’ more silence. He looked round the circle of faces; boastful Ralph Dryden, Property Developer Man; Rory Gifford, the dark, thrown-together, Bohemian-looking TV producer friend of Lancelot Bliss whom he had learned produced Lance's TV programme; Adam Ardley, the website designer; Toby Rufford-Lyle, the London barrister; the lowering-browed Tony Something who worked ‘in the City’. Even Lance, the gossipy TV Doctor seemed to have run out of chat.

  To be fair, perhaps, as he had, their little group had all experienced estate agents’ more underhand tricks. Sensing the group was itching to top each other's buying and selling horror stories which his presence prevented, he said, ‘Excuse me, must do some more mingling,’ and took himself off to the other side of the room from where he was amused to see their discussion became animated. He caught several glances and knew they wouldn't forget him in a hurry.

  Simon Farnell appeared at his elbow. ‘All alone, dear?’ he asked. ‘Let me introduce you to some other people.’ Before he could drag him off to another group, Rafferty said, ‘I thought I'd get another drink first.’

  ‘Dutch courage, is it? Go on then.’ Like the mother-hen to which Caroline Durward had likened him, Simon shooed him off towards the bar, then hurried to catch him up, to whisper, ‘By the way, dear, the accent's slipping.’

  As he stood at the bar, he studied the women covertly; as he reminded himself, finding a partner was the reason he had come. Though, apart from Jenny, none of the other women appealed to him. All were discreetly made up and attractive in an understated way, but to Rafferty they all looked alike. Mostly blondes in little black numbers that contrasted so well with the perfect skin and shiny hair. Their bosoms, too, seemed to come in regulation sizes; Isobel aside, none were too voluptuous or too meagre. Even their voices sounded similar, well-modulated, nothing too strident. Caroline Durward, although a good ten years older, shared the blonde, unlined, well-groomed look. It occurred to him that he could be attending a plastic surgeons’ convention where the greatest successes were paraded. Briefly, Rafferty wondered where the failures were stored. Up in the attic, presumably, where, like Dorian Grey, they could do their time-withered bit out of sight. Rafferty preferred the more natural beauty of Jenny Warburton.

  As people and conversations moved around him, he learned that most had names that ended in the up-market ‘a’ sound. It accorded with his theory that the names of the common herd tended to end in an ‘i’ sound, such as Kylie, Shelley, Tracey, Tiffany, Kimberley, Tammy, Billie and so on, and mostly applied more to girls. Up-market names ended in an ‘a’ sound, such as Lucinda, Lydia, Fiona, Diana, Miranda, Emma and Amanda and the really posh ones followed no rules at all - just like the more free-spirited of the working classes. Both often still gave their kids Biblical, classical, historical or royal names, such as Adam, Anne, Andrew, Elizabeth, Matthew, Luke, Mark, John, Charles, Edward, George and William as opposed to the designer gear wearing, celebrity-aping working class, who favoured names such as Kylie and the like.

  Was it a coincidence, Rafferty wondered, that his cousins, Jerry and Terry shared the down-market ‘i’ sound? At least – as a Joseph, I'm as biblical as the aristos, he was able to comfort himself, until he realized his theory fell down because Jerry was actually Jeremiah, which put him in the up-market name area.

  Of course, being his theory, it fell far short of proof. No doubt, if he mentioned it to Llewellyn, he would soon put him straight on it much as his did with most of his too-ready murder theories as to who had dunnit.

  Two hours later Rafferty decided he'd done more than enough mingling and sought out Jenny again. He glimpsed her through the crowd. She wore a glazed look as some man with a supercilious expression shouted in her ear above the noise. Rafferty, about to butt in, was saved the trouble, as she put down her empty glass, said a few quiet goodbyes and made for the door.

  As he edged his way after Jenny, Rafferty noticed Isobel Goddard slip out the door behind her. Before he followed them, Rafferty glanced over his shoulder, wanting to be sure no more demands to mingle threatened. He couldn't spot any of the agency partners in the now-heaving room and guessed they were taking a well-earned break. They had worked hard and had successfully retrieved shrinking violets from the terrace throughout the evening. Rafferty had several times found himself numbered amongst those so retrieved.

  Relieved to have evaded another such retrieval, Rafferty firmly closed the drawing room door behind him, enclosing its babble of conversation. As his feet clicked on the marble-tiled entrance hall Isobel glanced behind her, before she headed off towards the Ladies.

  Rafferty caught up with Jenny by the front door. ‘You didn't say goodbye,’ he told her. Teasingly, he added, ‘To me or Guy.

  ‘I'm sorry. I did look for you earlier. I was hoping you'd rescue me from that awful man. And I've already said goodbye to Guy Cranston. I must go. Though I don't normally work Saturdays I've got to go in early tomorrow and do a few hours. I didn't intend to stay out so late.’

  ‘Nor me.’ With Dafyd Llewellyn on honeymoon, Rafferty had been forced to look after his own paperwork; most of it was still awaiting his attention. He had intended to stay only an hour or so and weigh up whether he was wasting his time, his money and his cousin's expensive suit. As he had expected, the rest of the members were way out of his normal social orbit. Jenny, though, seemed different, sweet and down-to-earth. There was something vulnerable about her which he found very appealing.

  Now full of the previously spurned Dutch courage, Rafferty said, ‘I'd like to see you again. May I ring you?’ Shame Llewellyn couldn't hear that grammatical ‘may’, he reflected.

  Jenny glanced up at him and smiled. ‘I'd like that. Have you got a pen?’

  Rafferty had - he'd come armed with three and two small notebooks just in case.

  Jenny quickly scribbled her telephone number down, adding as she did so,

  ‘I'll be home around 10.30 tomorrow and will be in for the rest of the day.’

  Pleased, Rafferty nodded and took out Nigel's mobile. ‘Better ring for a cab. Can I get one for you? Or we could share?’ he suggested hopefully.

  ‘I've got my car, thanks. I only had two small glasses of wine so should be under the limit.’

  Two of the other guests came out of the toilet allocated to the men, glanced at Rafferty and Jenny where they stood by the front door, and headed slowly back to the drawing room.

  ‘Didn't you say you live near the Docks? It's on my way. I'll drop you if you like.’

  Rafferty would have liked - very much. But he had given her Nigel's address earlier. He rather regretted it now. If he and Jenny became an item he'd have to stage a swift house move to his real address. And a swift name change, too, he reminded himself. It was a pity that when he had arranged to borrow his cousin's identity he had thought no further than the concealment of his actions from his Ma. He hoped Jenny was the understanding sort she seemed to be.

  But for now, he couldn't take the chance that Jenny might say yes to the expected ‘come up for coffee,
etc‘, scenario. While he might have a key to Nigel's apartment, he doubted, even if he could find them, that he would master Nigel's coffee-making gadgets. He sensed Jenny might be special and he didn't want to look a fool. Anyway, he had her phone number. He would ask her out for a meal and begin to woo her properly. Besides, he discovered he was busting for a pee; very romantic.

  By now, they found themselves outside the front door. Rafferty made the excuse he was meeting friends later and was heading in the opposite direction. After Jenny gave him a quick peck on the cheek, Rafferty stood on the top step feeling ridiculously happy and watched Jenny walk away. She turned and waved at him before she reached the side of the house where the cars were parked and disappeared from view.

  The scent of Jenny's perfume still hung in the still air and his nostrils flared as he breathed it in. But nature prevented his own ‘I have been here before’, Rossetti moment, as he recalled Llewellyn had once described a similar occasion. He had to rush back inside.

  As he made for the Gents’ lavatory, he could hear the gurgling of ancient plumbing echoing through the slightly open door of the Ladies’ toilet. It almost drowned the still-rising crescendo of talk and laughter heard through the thickly-panelled door of the large drawing room.

  Half anxious that one of the agency staff might yet appear and collar him again, Rafferty hurried into the Gents’ It was empty. He relieved himself, washed his hands, then took out Nigel's mobile. The power was getting low, he noticed. Nigel hadn't bothered to put it on charge. He made a mental note to put his own phone and Nigel's on charge when he got home.

  As he rang for the cab, he studied the slip of paper with Jenny's number on it and grinned inanely. But the grin faded as he remembered the gates were controlled electronically. Good manners required him to say his goodbyes, but he felt reluctant to re-enter the fray. He'd get the cabbie to ring through so he could leave. Jenny hadn't returned so she must have managed to get out.

  Rafferty left and walked up the drive to await his cab. He had only to wait five minutes before the cab pulled up. After he explained to the cab driver and got him to speak into the intercom, the gates opened and Rafferty slipped through. With a contented sigh, he settled himself in the rear seat, glad to sit back in the quiet of the cab and just dream.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was Saturday lunchtime. Rafferty frowned and replaced the receiver as Jenny Warburton's ansafone picked up for the third time in as many hours. He had left a message each time, but Jenny hadn't returned his calls even though she'd told him only yesterday that she would at home from 10.30 onwards.

  As he pushed out of the public phone box – having forgotten to charge up either his mobile or the one Nigel had given him – Rafferty reflected sadly on the changing fates. At one time – and not so long ago either – he had only to pick up his so-called ‘little black book’ and he'd have an amusing companion for the evening and often a satisfying partner for the night as well. A gift from his ma, his little black book was actually sky-blue with a rainbow arching over both front and back covers. But suddenly, his little not-black book was filled with more crossings-out than entries, the terse explanations through the cancellation lines said: married; seriously dating; moved to Newcastle; emigrated. Emigrated! Talk about the ultimate brush-off.

  Though, if he was honest, he had been the one whose previous lack of willingness to commit had helped to bring about those marriages, those steady relationships, those upping of sticks to Newcastle or Sydney. He'd had no lack of ‘willing to commit’ ladies to complain about as his ma had frequently pointed out to him.

  He decided he deserved the consolation of a swift half of Adnams and popped into the nearest pub. But before he ordered the beer, he visited the Gent's and after using the facilities, he disconsolately studied his face in the mirror. He saw blue eyes that had been a more intense blue in his youth, the thick mop of unruly auburn hair and the chin with the dimple. Not wildly handsome, not even his Ma would say that, but he wasn't plug-ugly, either. He was an average-looking bloke, with all his own teeth. So what was wrong with him that had decided Jenny not to answer his calls?

  It couldn't be his looks. Average-looking – and worse – men found women to love them. Perhaps it was his manner? Hadn't Llewelyn implied he had a tendency to be too glib and jokey? It was a protective skin, of course. What he needed to do, and he didn't know if he was capable of it, was to try to shed at least some of his protective skin and dare to bare the inner man, the deeper, more spiritual side. Trouble was, he was worried he might discover he didn't have a more spiritual side. Like the child who actually met the bogeyman, he feared the early Catholic indoctrination had driven any spirituality so far underground he'd need an earth-mover to disinter it.

  His earlier relationships had been superficial and ultimately unsatisfying; much like his marriage to Angie, his late wife. It had only been Llewellyn's steady and serious courtship of his cousin Maureen, which had brought home to him that lasting relationships were not necessarily to be found between the pages of a little black book; not even if it was the blue of a summer sky with a hopeful but meteorologically unlikely rainbow arching over all.

  But as he left the Gents’ and his soul-searching behind him and ordered his beer, Rafferty consoled himself with the thought that he'd taken a step in the right direction, even if, with Jenny, that step had turned out to be a false one, he'd done something positive to help himself and that must surely be a good thing.

  He found a table and sat down. After he had swallowed half his drink, he forced himself to accept that Jenny had changed her mind and didn't want to see him again. But it still upset him. He had taken to Jenny at once and had thought she had liked him, too. Disappointed, Rafferty put thoughts of Jenny from his mind. Plenty more fish in the Made In Heaven sea, he told himself even as the plaintive little voice remarked that, for him, not one of them had held the same appeal as Jenny. But even though Jenny didn't want him, someone else might, and after paying out so much money for the privilege of attending their parties, he was damned if he was going to just throw it all away. He should just stick with it and wait for the different occasions to come round. He finished his beer and headed for home.

  As he picked up his car keys that evening and set off for town, Rafferty reflected that it was fortunate the agency social whirl left little time for brooding. The party tonight was to be held in the annexe of The Elmhurst, the posh hotel on Northgate. Close to the centre of town, it was one of Elmhurst's larger hotels.

  Rafferty had been in The Elmhurst before – the bar, anyway, but never its annexe. For some reason, he had been expecting some kind of cobbled together construction. The word ‘annexe’ to him always suggested ‘making do, 50s austerity. But after he had parked his car a discreet distance away, showed his invitation to the two smartly uniformed doormen and followed the signs for the Made In Heaven party, he saw there was no sense of making do at this annexe. Stupid, really, that he had imagined there might be.

  The Elmhurst was a four-star hotel with everything provided for its guests’ comfort. And although not particularly old – being no earlier than Edwardian – The Elmhurst was opulent, from the gorgeously decorated ceiling in the largest of the three ballrooms to the deep marble baths and even deeper mattresses on the huge double beds in the suites that Rafferty had only heard about. But then those years before the First World Ward were golden ones for the wealthy.

  As he entered the second of the hotel's annexe ballrooms and glanced round, the opulence made him feel even more conscious that he was wearing Nigel's peacock suit for the third time in a week. He had convinced himself that members who had attended both parties must know the suit almost as well as he did. The silk shirt was the same also, though he had washed it himself first thing that morning. Perhaps it was time he splashed out.

  Mentally, Rafferty reviewed his tired wardrobe and knew, if he was going to continue attending the social functions of the Made In Heaven agency he'd have to get himself suitably kit
ted out. He couldn't expect to make a long-term loan out of Nigel's suit. ‘Clothes maketh the man’ had never been Rafferty's watchword phrase as it seemed to be Llewellyn's. But if he wanted his membership of the agency to achieve the desired result he would have to accept he would be judged on his appearance. And whether he liked it or not clothes were part of that outward show.

  He decided, a little later, as he grabbed his second glass of wine from a passing waiter and met and held the encouraging gaze of an engagingly monkey-faced young woman standing some six yards away, that he could get to like such an extravagant lifestyle. Emboldened by her encouraging smile, Rafferty made his way towards her, snaffling another glass of wine on the way so he had something to offer besides himself.

  She smiled. ‘Just what I like; a man who can command the attention of waiters.’

  Her face looked even more endearingly monkey-cute at close quarters, he realized as he handed her the glass. ‘That's me,’ said Rafferty. ‘Elmhurst's very own Michael Winner.’

  ‘Don't tell me you're a film director, too?’

  Briefly tempted, Rafferty decided not to go down that road. He'd already told enough lies. ‘No. The only directing I do is of people around bijoux residences I think they might want to buy.’ Bijoux residences – God, Rafferty, you're getting a bit too into this estate agent-speak, he told himself. Before you know it, you'll be talking like Nigel, who was all ‘select apartments’ never ‘flats’ and ‘spaciously laid-out’ instead of ‘barn-like and expensive to heat’.

  ‘Pity, because I'm an actress. At least, that's what I do when I'm not ‘resting’ – doing temp jobs of typing and filing for bosses who work you to death and who think their pay entitles them to groping privileges. Damn.’ Her face fell. ‘I forgot I'd intended to be all sophisticated. And me an actress, too.’