by Nick Louth
To fool the paparazzi, PR chief Jonesy Tolling had mocked up an e-mail ostensibly to Kelly about greeting Mira’s arrival at Heathrow on the 7.45am flight, and had his PA ‘accidentally’ copy it to the Press Association newsdesk, where he knew it would be fired out to hundreds of publications and freelancers. With luck, most of the photographers would now be going to the wrong airport. Virgil had taken a quick walk to arrivals to see if the plan was working, but was dismayed to see half a dozen photographers gathered there. He asked them who they were waiting for, and was told that it was the foreign secretary, coming back from a UN meeting on climate change. Perhaps they could sneak Mira past them, with sunglasses and a headscarf.
‘This football stuff isn’t the first trouble she’s had you know,’ Kelly said.
‘I read about the Qaeggan guy in Denmark.’
‘Well there was also the first security guy we recruited too. An American called Curtis Hyde who made a pass at her. We had to sack him. He still sends her pervy e-mails and stuff.’
‘Is that in the legal action file?’
‘Yes. The lawyers are sending copies of everything. Sorry we didn’t already have it.’
The aircraft door opened, and Mira was the first passenger to emerge. Now blonde, wearing large dark sunglasses and dressed in a navy blue two-piece she oozed casual glamour. The stewardesses alongside, both attractive women, seemed dowdy by comparison. As she strode up the sloping aerobridge, even Virgil could see from the set of her mouth that she wasn’t happy. Kelly ran down to meet her halfway, at which point Mira let go of her wheeled silver case, and otherwise ignored her.
‘This is Virgil, I told you about him,’ Kelly said, wheeling the heavy case behind Mira.
‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Roskova,’ Virgil said.
‘Likewise, Mr Bliss,’ Mira said, without slowing down or looking at him. A uniformed greeter from the airline unlocked a door marked private and led them down to the tarmac where a Mercedes saloon and chauffeur were waiting. In five minutes they were in an almost deserted luxury lounge. As the greeter departed to oversee the luggage formalities, Mira took off her sunglasses. The clarity of her green eyes took Virgil’s breath away. She looked flawless, almost too dazzling to look at. How could anyone punch such a face?
‘So Virgil, are you going to be able to protect me?’ It was almost as if she’d been reading his mind.
‘I’ll do my very best,’ Virgil said.
She looked him over, taking her time. ‘I hear you were in Afghanistan. How was that?’
‘Not like it’s portrayed. Long, long periods of heat, dust and boredom punctuated by a few mad minutes of terror. In my unit, almost everyone who was killed or injured was hit by booby traps. Firefights were rare. Didn’t often see anyone that you could say he’s Taliban or he’s not. It made you feel like a sitting duck sometimes.’
‘I know how you feel,’ she smiled. ‘I’m a sitting duck too. Apparently responsible for England’s sporting misery.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t take it personally,’ Virgil said.
‘Really? When someone tweeted to me that I should be anally raped for considering myself too good for Lawrence Wall? That’s just one I happened to see. I’m sure there are others, right Kelly?’
Kelly nodded. ‘Dozens, I’m afraid. I’ll spare you the details.’
Virgil muttered his apologies and shut up. In his head he imagined the voice of Sergeant Davies whispering in his ear: Top marks for diplomacy? I should fucking cocoa.
Half an hour later, they were all on their way to London in Stardust Brands’ own Mercedes. Virgil sat in the front with the chauffeur while Kelly and Mira sat behind. Kelly asked her if she wanted to see the papers.
‘No, I saw as much as I could bear online.’ Mira got her phone out and prodded the screen a couple of times. She held it to her ear and launched into a south London twang. ‘Jonesy old son, I thought this couldn’t happen, mate.’ Virgil turned and caught her eye. She responded with a conspiratorial grin. ‘No, Jonesy. I needed to Fedex the letter straightaway. I wanted him to get it before he left for Croatia. Sorry, I do not dump boyfriends by text. I’m considerate and kind. It’s not just your brand image, sunshine, it’s really who I am.’
There was then a long and heated discussion about the week’s newspapers. Mira was really in her stride now. ‘Jonesy, do you think that Lawrence leaked my letter to the Sun? No, neither do I. It shows how gentle I am, so why would he? So how did they get it? Yes, Jonesy, it is an effing disaster. I dedicate it to you, my friend. Sort it out. Kiss kiss.’ She hung up. Virgil caught that little grin again. She clearly knew how to handle him.
‘Can I cheer you up with some of the last week’s fan mail,’ Kelly asked.
‘Go on then,’ Mira said.
‘It’s only a selection. You’ve a hundred and twenty-eight thousand more Twitter followers, which makes over fourteen million, and nearly eleven thousand direct messages in the last three days. Best of all, you’ve added half a million on Instagram. There were about twenty thousand posts on your Facebook page. Here are a selection of the best.’ She handed across a sheaf of print-outs.
‘How many proposals of marriage in the last week?’ Mira asked, putting them aside and inspecting her nails in a faux arrogant way. Virgil suddenly realised she was showing off, possibly for him. Somehow that cheered him up.
‘A hundred and sixty-three, most of them since they heard you had dumped Mr Wall. You got some poems, and a few video greetings. Lots of donations to the orphans.’
‘Nice. And what’s the willy count?’
Kelly laughed. ‘Only twelve last week, all disgusting.’
Mira caught Virgil’s glance over his shoulder. ‘Yes, Virgil,’ she said. ‘One of the great privileges of being a public face is that pasty, overweight plumbers from Arbroath, hairy van drivers from Northampton and skinny students from Coventry imagine that I will be impressed by photos of their genitalia. Can you protect me from that? No you can’t. But Kelly does. She’s an angel. She’s the one who sees them. I prefer not to.’
‘We’ve had an e-mail from Norris Dolan about you appearing in the video for a song on his new solo album,’ Kelly said. ‘Thad’s advice is to decline.’
‘Who on earth is Norris Dolan?’ Mira asked Virgil. He shrugged.
‘I had to look him up,’ Kelly said. ‘He’s the drummer from 1970s metal band Hot Rivet.’
‘Ah, I have heard of them,’ Virgil said. ‘They were big once.’
‘Norris Dolan is seventy-two,’ said Kelly. ‘He has financial problems from his divorces, they say.’
Mira laughed and held up her hand with thumb pointing downwards. ‘Next, please. Tell me about Mr Kulchuk.’
‘Ulan Kulchuk is a Kazakh-born hedge fund manager and art collector, known as the Magpie, for his unrivalled collection of old masters. He is seen as being very close to the Russian leadership. He has homes in London, New York, Monaco, São Paolo and a few other places. He has a yacht with its own helipad.’ Kelly looked up meaningfully.
‘Hmmm,’ said Mira, rolling her eyes and smiling.
‘He’s quite old, of course. Fifty-eight. Bald and fat.’
Mira laughed. ‘Okay, okay, why am I having lunch with him today?’
‘The lead came from Diane Glassman. There’s an art event he wants to hire you for. He’s hinted at product endorsement possibilities too. He’s on the board of lots of different companies, including Suressence. Thad had originally planned to meet him alone, but Kulchuk asked that you be there.’
Mira got out her phone and started texting. ‘Anything else today?’
Kelly grinned. ‘Here’s today’s clever clogs award.’ She handed across a card which seemed to be written by a very young child in multi-coloured crayon. Mira read it, laughed and handed it forward to Virgil. ‘Take a look at this,’ she said.
Virgil took it. ‘Dear Miss Beautiful. My daddy’s very unhappy since Mummy left two years ago. He’s a very nice man, and quite handsome
but since I got leukaemia last year, he hasn’t smiled once in months. If you would come out for dinner with him, I’m sure he would be happy again. With love. Ben xxx.’ There was a photograph of Ben, a beautiful little boy of perhaps five, clipped to the card.
‘Shameless,’ said Virgil. ‘But clever.’
‘Trouble is I can’t ignore them,’ Mira said. ‘Jonesy is quite right about that. It could be a tabloid put-up job, ready-made for the headline: “Stuck-up Mira ignores cancer boy’s dying wish.” So now Portia has to check if the boy exists, if he’s really ill, and to craft a nice reply without committing me to anything.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Virgil said.
Mira looked out of the window at the motorway traffic and muttered: ‘Sometimes I wish I wasn’t branded as some Little Miss Perfect. They’ve left me so far to fall I feel bloody giddy.’
‘Look at that,’ the driver interrupted. They were approaching an articulated lorry, on whose rear doors was emblazoned a giant picture of Lawrence Wall in overalls, arms across his chest with a paint brush in one hand, and a roller in the other. The slogan was: ‘Dulux Wallguard: No moisture gets past, period.’
‘Overtake please, John, I’m feeling a little car sick,’ Mira said. She stole a glance at Virgil and muttered. ‘He made over a million from that deal.’
Virgil said nothing.
‘Here’s one to cheer you up,’ Kelly said, passing across the white Broadmoor envelope. ‘The translation is on a card inside.
Mira examined the card, and her hand strayed to her mouth.
‘So do you know who this is from?’ Virgil asked.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
Virgil repeated the question.
‘How could I possibly know that? It isn’t signed.’
‘He writes like he knows you.’
‘Virgil, they all think they know me. And they don’t. What they know is the Mira created by Stardust Brands. Not the real Mira, thank God.’
* * *
The car dropped Kelly off at a tube station, and then headed to Mira’s new south London apartment in Battersea. ‘I spent two and a half million on this bloody place, and have only spent ten nights there,’ Mira told Virgil.
The chauffeur took the car down into a huge basement garage, passing a card over a sensor to lift the barrier. Mira took off her sunglasses as they drove slowly around the cavernous floor and scanned the gleaming rows of Audis, BMWs and Mercedes. ‘I guessed as much. Typical!’
‘What’s the matter?’ Virgil said.
‘Lawrence has taken my Porsche back. It was parked right here.’
‘Wasn’t it a gift?’
‘It was, but knowing Lawrence it will have been financed on the never-never and in his name.’
‘What petulant behaviour,’ Virgil observed, shaking his head.
Mira glared at him. ‘Actually, if I want your assessment, I’ll ask for it.’
‘Understood. My apologies.’
‘Granted, Corporal Bliss.’
He looked behind. She was grinning, playing with him again. The chauffeur took the car up to the doors of the residents’ secure lift. Virgil stepped out, checked the coast was clear and used Mira’s access card to open the lift doors. He then retrieved her three heavy suitcases from the boot, and opened the car door for Mira. He followed her into the lift. She seemed completely unaware of him, checking her phone and muttering to herself, while he tried not to stare. At the penthouse floor, eleven, he stepped out first, and checked the short corridor, which led to only two doors. She approached the door to her flat while he brought the luggage.
‘Would you like me to go in first?’ Virgil asked.
‘No, Virgil, you stay out here and check your mascara while I go in and karate the burglars and rapists myself.’ She looked at him, deadpan.
‘Look, I only asked because it’s your private…Okay, okay,’ Virgil grinned at the wind-up, and slipped through the door. It was a dark-walled two-bedroom apartment with an enormous lounge. Beyond was a giant patio giving views over the Thames from Westminster to Hammersmith. Looking far right he could see the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. On the dining table and on the kitchen counter were at least ten vases of red roses. Virgil walked up to the table and saw a huge white envelope with Mira’s name written untidily on it. He cursorily checked each room before returning to her.
‘He’s been here. Must have been before the locks were changed, and before that drunken escapade I told you about.’ Virgil led her in.
‘Oh wow.’ Mira surveyed the roses, smelling them, and rearranging them before picking up and opening the card. ‘So he’s very, very sorry.’
Virgil decided it would be best to say nothing.
‘Yet I just got a text from his solicitors confirming that they took my Porsche back because it was supposedly only on loan. Now Lawrence is filling the place with roses and saying he wants me back. That’s a pretty mixed message, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is,’ Virgil ventured. ‘But in my opinion the roses have been here quite a few days. There are a lot of dropped petals, and there’s not much water left in the vases. So my guess would be that they were put here when you first went abroad, well before he received your letter.’
‘Yes,’ Mira said absent-mindedly. ‘That’s quite possible.’
‘In which case he may be doubly angry because you apparently ignored his floral efforts at reconciliation, and then finished the relationship. If he’s the kind of bloke who has trouble saying sorry, it could really be humiliating to him.’
Mira looked candidly at him. ‘Well, Mr Bliss, surprises come in all shapes, sizes and colours, don’t they? If I ever sack you, you could always get a job as an agony aunt in a women’s magazine.’
Virgil laughed. ‘Really? I failed my first year psychology exams at uni.’
‘Well, never mind. I think I like you. Perhaps you can keep yourself busy while I get changed.’
‘Understood.’ He used the time to assess the flat. The apartment block was laid out like a cruise liner, with each floor set back half a dozen metres from the one beneath, to give each residence a big patio. Climbing up from the floor below would require standing on the patio balustrade, in full view of several adjacent apartment blocks. The patio door locks were good, five lever deadlocks, but not beyond the wit of a professional. The apartment door’s electronic locks were more secure.
Mira emerged dressed in a white Lycra sports bra and jogging trousers, which revealed a tanned flat tummy and beautifully sun-burnished shoulders. ‘I’m feeling fat and frumpy after all that time on the plane, so I’m going for a run.’
‘At a gym I hope?’ Virgil was alarmed.
‘No, Battersea Park. I need fresh air.’
‘I have to come with you, but I don’t have any running gear with me.’ He looked down. Dark suit, white shirt and best dark shoes. ‘I’d look like the presidential secret service.’
She laughed. ‘Really, you don’t have to come.’
‘There’s not much point in being a bodyguard if I don’t, is there? I can go home and be back in forty minutes, if that’s alright?’
‘Virgil. Listen. I have a lunch in just over two hours, so not a huge amount of time. I do need exercise.’ She stared at him, up and down. ‘Okay, let’s have a look.’ She wandered into the spare room, and opened a big cardboard box. ‘This is a load of stuff from my old place that I’ve never had chance to unpack.’ She tossed a pair of stretch jogging bottoms at him. ‘Try those. They were Johnny’s.’
‘Johnny?’
‘A boyfriend and personal trainer, a while back. They have been washed. I’d been meaning to send them to Oxfam.’ Next she found a selection of T-shirts. ‘These are men’s, one’s bound to fit.’ She tossed them at him. ‘Aha!’ She reached down and hauled up a box. Inside was a pair of enormous, very expensive and almost new Nike trainers. ‘Try these. Size thirteen.’
‘They’ll be a bit big,’ Virgil said. ‘Who’s are they?’
/>
‘Who’s do you think?’
Mira found him some socks and then let him use the bathroom to change. He emerged a bit sheepishly. ‘The trackies are a bit tight,’ he said. In fact they were almost indecent, and the legs ended mid-calf.
Mira’s gaze flicked down to his groin, and raised one slow eyebrow. ‘So, that’s where you keep your concealed weapon.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, thinking: Careful, Virgil. You’re being tested.
They began with stretches in her lounge, in which the benefits of Mira’s many sessions with Pilates guru Cassandra Ko came to the fore. She had the straight-backed posture of a ballet dancer, could stand holding one leg vertically above, and do the splits. Virgil, by no means as supple, tried not to stare while he went through his own more aerobic warm-up regime.
Once out on the street, Virgil felt like a scarecrow. It wouldn’t have been so bad wearing giant trainers and overly-tight trackies if it wasn’t for Mira’s casual film star look: the unseasonable tan in London’s winter, the body-hugging Lycra, pink trainers, Fitbit, iPod, wrap-around amber-tinted sunglasses and a casually gorgeous plait of silky blonde hair. It was lunchtime, and as they jogged down Parkgate Road in the watery sunshine, they passed the Prince Albert, a great old gin palace of a pub, now refurbished. A dozen trendily dressed young men were standing outside, grasping pints and smoking. As Mira floated effortlessly past, they turned as one and stared. A pace or two ahead of Virgil, she ignored the red pedestrian lights, gliding across Albert Bridge Road through a gap in the traffic. That left Virgil to take his life in his hands with a white van, much to the amusement of the pub goers behind him. Mira was already in the park beyond, but the beacon of her perfect white-clad bottom, flexing thirty yards ahead dazzled like a rising sun. She never once looked behind as he caught up, wondering why she had upped the pace.
‘Trying to get away?’ Virgil said as he drew level.
