by Nick Louth
‘Tasha it’s him!’ Mira squealed. Ram and another younger-looking man were wearing cricket whites and standing next to a small grey-haired man in a suit. She clicked through to the website and found the caption, from the Times of India. It was from 2009.
Shipbreaking billionaire L. K. Dipani and his international cricket star son Adhish, ready to play in the annual Mumbai Homeless charity cricket match. They are joined by Mr Dipani’s oldest son Ram, right, who came back from London this week.
‘Oldest son, Mira,’ Tasha said, grasping her wrist ‘Omigod, think of the inheritance!’
‘You’re wicked, Tasha,’ Mira said. ‘I need a bigger picture.’ She pulled her iPad from her soft leather backpack, typed in ‘Ram Dipani’ and went straight for the image search. Most of the pictures seemed to centre on Adhish, who had recently married some stunning Bollywood starlet, but there were a few of Ram too. He was thirty-one, and described by the Indian papers as a playboy. A broader search showed the British newspapers only referred to him in connection with a series of City property deals.
‘So, what do you reckon?’ Mira asked, always happy to mine Tasha’s deep reserves of commonsense.
‘He’s more handsome than his brother. A bit more reserved, perhaps less shallow. I hope playboy just means he’s unmarried. The crickety one is a bit naff, shirt buttons undone, hairy chest. Barry White meets George Michael.’
Mira shrugged. ‘I actually like chest hair.’
‘Yuck,’ Tasha said absent-mindedly. Under Tasha’s expert direction, they soon found the London address of LKD Property (London) Ltd, where Ram Dipani was a director. There was a phone number. ‘So what are you going to do, Mira?’
‘Well, I’m officially shot of Lawrence now, so I can have some fun.’ She explained about the awkward final meal under Virgil’s watchful gaze.
‘And where is your hunky bodyguard tonight? I was hoping to get a close look.’
‘He’s tied up with preparations for the big meeting next week.’
‘But you will introduce me to him at some point?’
‘Yes, but rumour has it he’s seeing Kelly, our intern.’
‘Bugger,’ said Natasha, with a little pout. ‘I’m always pipped at the post.’
‘Never mind,’ said Mira. ‘It’s not going to be much fun for her because he’s at my beck and call, day and night.’ She affected a haughty expression and clicked her fingers in the air. ‘And I rather enjoy playing Queen Mira.’
‘God,’ said Natasha in wonderment. ‘You’re so spoiled!’
Mira clapped her hands and roared with laughter. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
* * *
Back at Stardust Brands, Virgil was sitting through an interminable strategy meeting ahead of next week’s Suressence presentation. This was the pivotal moment for Mira’s entire career, and would take place at the London School of Fashion. Suressence product executives had for months been enthusiastic about working with her, but a presentation to the main board was needed before the contract was finalised. Virgil was tasked to prove to the French company that their precious investment in Mira was safe from external threat.
‘Jarvis,’ said Thad. ‘I believe you have had the Mira presentation video re-edited.’
Art director Jarvis McTear ran his hand through his glossy quiff. ‘Yes, it’s all ready to go. We had it re-edited to splice together the best skincare shots without the brand overlays.’
‘Good. Jonesy, run us through the line we’re taking on Lawrence Wall. Just in case Suressence bring it up.’
‘Right. Lawrence Wall is a bit of a character, don’t we agree, and has been pursuing Mira after their brief relationship broke up. Yes, he’s smitten, who wouldn’t be, but it’s all water under the bridge. If the advertising launch is ready for Easter, then we can promise the tabloids will be in line, because they want a share of the advertising. We need Suressence to fund a director’s cut teaser video ahead of the launch, which we can offer as an incentive. We’ve already got takers.’
‘Okay, that sounds fine,’ Thad said, looking down at a folder. ‘Now here is the meat, why Mira is unique. My presentation focuses not just on her, but the global media-cum- marketing context. A new Puritanism is gathering pace; a gathering groundswell against ever-more flesh being on view, whether it’s MTV or Playboy. Pornography is out there, but once the Internet matures, regulation means access will be restricted. There is no place for the sexualisation pendulum to go, except back. Post Jimmy Savile, we will not only protect children, but the idea of childhood. We’ll cherish chastity again, not deride it. We’ll insulate innocence in a snowbank of purity. Any multi-year campaign has to be in harmony with the sociological mood music.’
‘We might be a bit ahead of the curve,’ Portia said. ‘But it’s plausible.’
Thad nodded and continued: ‘In this new world, Mira is the real article. An unspoilt, impeccably behaved, mature and intelligent role model for millennial women and girls, but who also sells well to the richer generation above them. The new Catherine Deneuve, cool, sensual but reticent. Neither aristocratic nor tarty, demure but not a prude, just a distillation of pure womanhood.’
Jonesy took up the theme. ‘Unlike any of the others they might have looked at, it isn’t image, it’s reality. When other wannabes were experimenting with fags behind the bike sheds, she was practising the clarinet. When girls her age were getting off their faces on cider, she was learning Italian and Russian. She’s never taken drugs, period.’
‘Well, we only have her word for it,’ muttered Portia. ‘And she likes a drink.’
Jonesy raised his hand as he continued. ‘The bottom line is we’re not afraid of disgrace clauses in the contract. By investing in Mira, they can be sure that in two years or even five she will be as unsullied and delightful as she is now. That, plus her huge online following and global recognition, is why she is so very expensive.’
‘Have you told her Suressence wants contractual random drugs testing?’ Portia asked.
‘Not yet. But she’s going to love the products,’ said Thad. ‘Moisturisers, face creams, and this new super-secret product doré.’
‘Ah yes, collagen molecule anti-ageing facial serum, twenty quid for half an ounce,’ Jonesy chuckled. ‘Of course they can only legally advertise it as anti-ageing because of the sunscreen in it. The rest of the ingredients are marketing bollocks.’
‘Still, forty million euros of marketing bollocks, globally, some of it ours,’ said Thad.
‘Speaking of skincare, Jonesy, what about the zombies?’ asked Portia. ‘Much of her online following came from the TV show. Death, decay, violence, nihilism. Not to mention wounds, pus, acne and halitosis. That’s a contradiction of everything she stands for, and everything Surressence aspires to.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Jonesy said. ‘Brand contamination keeps me awake at night. It’s really crimped her earning potential. Still, the Village of the Dead film premiere is next week, she’s not in it, so she’ll be eclipsed. The zombies will follow Annemaria Claverhorn instead. And good luck to her.’
Virgil raised his hand. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely true.’
They all turned to look at him, as if they had forgotten he was there. ‘Sure there will be a lot of new fans of the story, but the original fans, the true Qaeggan, are already complaining that it won’t be the same without Mira.’
‘Not our problem,’ said Jonesy. ‘She’s been in the shadow of the Village of the Dead for too long.’
Just then, Kelly burst into the room, her face wild. ‘Someone just tried to murder Lawrence Wall,’ she gasped. ‘He’s on life support.’
‘Good grief,’ Portia said, tapping on her iPad.
They all crowded round to read the news flash.
* * *
By the six o’clock news there was more detail. The BBC news showed the CCTV footage. It was taken at 2am above a car park near a Manchester nightclub. Lawrence Wall emerges from a door, in a light-coloured jacket with his arm aro
und a blonde woman. He sees a slender youth in a hooded top seemingly vandalising his Lamborghini. He races towards the youth, who can be seen scrambling over the bonnet of another car, and disappearing out of view at the bottom of the picture. As Wall gives chase, two doors on the car parked adjacent to his own are flung open, one smashing him in the leg. Two large individuals get out. One has a baseball bat, the other some kind of blade. The footage was pixelated for the TV as Wall gets kicked and punched and eventually drops to the ground. Right at the end of the scene, the man with the baseball bat has the CCTV camera pointed out to him, and turns round to look at it. His face is made-up like a Qaeggan, white clown paint under a wig, and three tear trails below each dark eye. The last view from the camera is the man clambering on top of a car, and swinging his bat at the lens.
Chapter Nineteen
TWENTY-ONE DAYS
They hadn’t even finished the meeting before the first press calls for Mira’s reaction started to pile up on Jonesy’s voicemail.
‘We need to get her somewhere safe, abroad perhaps, to keep the media off her back,’ said Portia.
‘Nah, nah,’ said Jonesy, ‘not abroad. That would look like a sign of guilt. The attackers were Qaeggan, remember, Mira’s personal effing zombies.’
‘For God’s sake, I don’t think anyone’s going to think she did it,’ Portia retorted.
‘She’s got the motive and the money to fund a hit,’ Jonesy said. ‘Suspicious behaviour like fleeing the country will draw attention to that.’
Thad sat with his head in his hands. ‘People, we’re going to have to postpone Suressence. There is no way we can go ahead in this atmosphere.’
They all sat glumly staring at the documents they had spent so long working on.
‘I suppose she could be off the hook if they find the attackers quickly,’ Portia said.
‘Or on it again, if the attackers turn out to be vigilantes, who did it to protect her,’ Jonesy said.
‘I’m sorry to bring you all back to earth,’ Virgil said, ‘but has anyone rung Mira? She may not know, and if she’s caught in public, something could happen. There’s nothing on my planner to say where she is until I take her to the Lagerfeld shoot tomorrow afternoon...’
Thad had her on speed dial before Virgil had finished the sentence. The call dropped into voicemail, but Mira called back within five minutes, and Thad put her on speakerphone.
‘I just heard,’ she breathed, voice ragged.
‘Where are you now?’ Thad asked.
‘I’m in the Festival Hall café with a friend.’
‘I could be there in half an hour,’ Virgil said. ‘If you need me.’
‘Well, I’m not sure. We’re going for dinner, and then I’m meeting up with some other Pinnacle models at a party,’ Mira said.
Virgil shook his head at Thad, who said: ‘Mira, we don’t advise it, even if Virgil comes along. It depends which way the press coverage breaks. You could be in for some blame, seeing as the attackers were made up like Qaeggan.’
‘And you could look callous, photographed carousing while your ex is on life support,’ Jonesy said.
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Mira retorted.
‘I know. We’re sorry to ruin your evening,’ Thad said.
‘And Mira,’ Jonesy said. ‘Are you planning to go home tonight? If so we’ll get Virgil to meet you there. The press are bound to be camped outside.’
‘Oh, this is so boring!’ Mira gave a little screech of frustration. ‘I want my life back. Okay, I’ll see if I can stay at Tasha’s tonight. Hold on.’ They waited while Mira had a conversation with her friend. ‘Yeah, that’s okay.’
‘Can I have a word with Tasha?’ Virgil asked. ‘I need to know it’s secure.’
The next few minutes did little to ease Virgil’s fears. Natasha’s flat was the ground floor of a converted house in Balham, south London. Three male students lived upstairs. The press would get to hear about it in no time.
‘This is a one-night only solution,’ Virgil said, passing the phone back to Thad. ‘We need to get a longer term answer.’
‘We’ve tried to persuade her to take a hotel room, but after what happened in Denmark she is reluctant,’ he replied.
‘Tasha’s had a brilliant idea,’ Mira said. ‘Her mother has a huge flat in St John’s Wood. It’s got an entryphone, three big bedrooms, and she only uses one. I could stay there until all this rubbish blows over.’
‘That’s handy,’ said Virgil, taking down the address. When Mira hung up, he turned to Thad. ‘Baroness Earl of West Bromwich, apparently.’
‘Her? The House of Lords Hellcat,’ Jonesy chuckled. ‘Mira should be safe enough there,’ he said, then scratched his head. They stared at each other. ‘I suppose we should send Lawrence Wall some flowers, from Mira, wishing him a speedy recovery?’ Jonesy looked round the room. ‘And a press release brimming with the sympathy and concern that she clearly doesn’t feel.’
‘He did beat her up, Jonesy,’ Portia said.
‘The world does not know that,’ he retorted. ‘She’s got to appear devastated. I mean for fuck’s sake, Lawrence Wall may never play again. He’s got a punctured lung, broken ribs, two cracked vertebrae and a severed Achilles tendon. This wasn’t some playground fight, it was nasty. There will already be a sea of floral tributes at the entrance to the club, a candlelit vigil outside the hospital and, PFU alert: if she wants even a chance at the Suressence contract, she is going to have to visit him. With flowers.’
‘Okay Jonesy, good catch. I’ll get Kelly onto it,’ Thad said.
‘What about the launch party for the film on Saturday?’ Virgil asked. ‘She has been looking forward to it, but there are some red carpet meet-the-public moments, which could be a risk.’
‘Fuck, I’d forgotten that,’ Jonesy sucked the arm of his spectacles ruminatively.
‘She really should go if possible,’ Portia said. ‘It’s a unique shop window overseas.’
‘Can you keep her safe there?’ Thad asked Virgil.
‘Yes. I’ve already done a lot of work on it,’ Virgil said, leafing through his documents. ‘There will be a big security detail anyway. The stars arrive at the back of the hotel, via a private entrance off Park Lane, and there is only one five minute promenade at the front, with the press in an enclosure, and the public either side of them, also behind barriers. However, because it’s a public road, there are no security checks or patdowns for the public. If we were talking about LA or New York, and were worried about firearms, I’d say cancel. Here I think on balance it’ll be okay. I’ll just make sure she doesn’t do any autographs or get too close to the barrier.’
* * *
TWENTY DAYS
The next few days were mayhem. The press went crazy over the attack, and Jonesy Tolling’s phone rang off the hook. Mira’s social media following went through the roof. Every news bulletin gave more detail about the state of Lawrence Wall, particularly his Achilles tendon. Footage showed pubs full of nervous fans watching the footage of the attack. There were even assaults, with soccer fans laying into Qaeggan in pubs in Stevenage, Reading and Hull. Interviewees from Manchester to Leeds, Liverpool to London were quick to wheel out their pet theories for the benefit of the cameras. Blame for the attack was spread between rival clubs, rival players in Wall’s own club and in the England camp, plus the England manager who had such difficulty in controlling Wall’s on-pitch temperament. But a fair proportion trotted out the personal angle: ‘Aye, it’s obviously the ex,’ said one elderly man, interviewed while laying flowers in the car park where Wall was attacked. ‘Stands to reason after he slagged her off on TV.’
Virgil flicked through channel after channel, newspaper after newspaper, scoured social media and the same depressing skirmishes broke out again and again. The juiciest theory was that which ran closest to Lawrence Wall’s heart.
The film premiere party went fine. Though there were dozens of rowdy Qaeggan, with the full make-up, wigs and black contact l
enses, they spent much more time booing the American actress Annemaria Claverhorn than trying to get close to Mira. Virgil and four hotel security guys in evening dress were between the actors and the crowd, and Mira’s turn was brief. Journalists’ questions were deliberately drowned out by broadcasting the film soundtrack over the PA system. Virgil, facing away from her to the audience, only knew the moment had come when the crowd gasped and the blizzard of photographers’ flashes began. It must be the dress. Mira was wearing a Cinderella-style scarlet ballgown, see-through below the thigh and above the shoulders. Her hair was swept over to one side. He turned to assess her trajectory. There were whistles and cheers from the crowd, and the scrape of the barriers edging forward in the crush as the chant began: ‘We want Mira, we want Mira.’
Just thirty seconds later, she was back in without a hitch, though Virgil later read that Claverhorn had privately expressed fury at being upstaged at her own premiere.
The visit to the private London hospital where Lawrence Wall had been transferred to recuperate seemed an easier prospect, but turned out worse. Virgil suggested going at nine in the morning, as soon as visiting hours began, hoping it wouldn’t yet be busy. But it was. The press pack had been poorly managed, and there was no rear entrance to the clinic. While sightseers were supposed to be kept on the other side of the busy Westminster street, they overflowed the limited crowd barriers, and there were too few police officers to control them. When Mira’s chauffeured car arrived it was from the wrong direction, leaving Mira to cross the street to the clinic. Virgil jumped out of the passenger side, and immediately had to deal with two photographers blocking his path. Mira, who was under instruction to get out on Virgil’s side facing the crowd, instead slid along and opened the other door. By the time Virgil had opened the door she was supposed to emerge from, she was already on her way towards the clinic, with the car between them. A PFU in the making, as Jonesy would have said. Virgil watched helplessly as a reporter blocked her path and shoved a microphone into her face.
‘How are you feeling about what happened to your ex?’
