Cents and Sensibility

by Maggie Alderson

  I was ready for them, though, and dismissed it all with a gale of laughter about what a hoot it was for a hack like me to be the victim of a trash mag beat-up.

  The person I was really looking for, though, was Amy Ticehurst. It was weeks since the Jericho trip and I hadn’t heard a word from her. Of course, I hadn’t been out much, which was how I normally kept in touch with Amy – it was that kind of a spontaneous friendship, we never arranged to meet, we just did, on the party circuit.

  But I had thought she might ring, or send me a sympathetic email, after the piece came out in Hot Stuff! I’d even tried her mobile once, but the message bank had been full.

  It was also very surprising for her to miss a Cartier party –she knew they always gave great door gifts. In the end I baled up Becca and asked her if she knew where Amy was.

  ‘Amy? She’s on safari. Kenya. She’s been gone for ages, but she’s due back any day now. It was all very last minute, I think. A really good freebie came up and she added on, you know how she does… Going to do a big piece for the mag.’

  That made sense. Amy loved Africa. She’d gone on her first safari as a press trip ten years before and she’d been on a permanent mission to get back there, as often as possible – preferably for nothing – ever since.

  ‘I had a freebie in Aaaaafrica…’ was one of our ongoing jokes.

  As we left Cartier, Ned was amazed to be given a pair of gold cufflinks as a going-home present. I told him to get used to it.

  ‘Your life will now be a shower of gifts,’ I said. ‘You’ll never need to buy anyone a birthday present ever again. You can just pass on some useless bit of tat that has been given to you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Ned.

  ‘If you choose to accept them,’ said Peter, who had politely declined his.

  Our next stop was a quick whirl through a private view in a Cork Street gallery, which was dull, and then there was only one place to go. It was time to introduce Ned to The Groucho Club.

  Peter was a founder member. He’d been on the original membership committee when it opened in 1985, and he had very kindly sponsored my application when I was a young reporter at the Journal.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about this place,’ said Ned, as we signed him in. ‘Is it as great as they all say?’

  ‘No,’ said Peter. ‘It’s not at all what it was, but it’s still the best there is.’

  I agreed with him. I went to all the private clubs from Soho House to Annabel’s in the course of my work and play, but The Groucho was still the one I felt most at home in. It seemed to have the same kind of non-judgemental, mad mix of people as a newspaper office. If you belonged, you belonged and that was it.

  We had a great time. Peter got straight into the champagne, which I knew he would happily put through on expenses, and between him and me, we knew so many people in there it became quite a party.

  We eventually rolled out at one in the morning, having ordered cabs to three different destinations. Notting Hill for me; Regents Park for Peter; and Whitechapel for Ned.

  We really were a rum crew.

  The next morning I was back at my desk consuming a bacon sandwich in an attempt to soak up a horrendous hangover, when my mobile rang. It was Amy.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, in a concerned tone. ‘Whatever have you done to Jay Fisher?’

  ‘What?’ I squeaked.

  ‘He’s an absolute mess. I saw him in Mombasa last week and he was asking me all about you, what kind of girl you are and all that. He was really agitated. Did you do something terrible to him?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ I said, astonished and confused in equal measure. ‘Where are you, Amy? Are you still on safari, or are you back in London?’

  ‘I’m in town, darling, got back last night. I would have rung you about this sooner, but my phone didn’t work properly out there. Are you all right?’

  I decided just to be honest.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Actually, I’m really confused about, er, the person you were talking about…’ I was suddenly aware of ears flapping all around me – even having my own office was no guarantee of privacy in that place. For all I knew Rita had planted a listening device in my phone.

  ‘Look, Amy,’ I said. ‘Could we have lunch? I can’t really talk about this in the office.’

  ‘Love to, sweetie. It’s always nice to go out to lunch the first day back at work, isn’t it? Get back in the swing of things gently. I’ll see you in The Wolseley at one? OK?’

  I got there first and ordered a Bloody Mary, to try and make myself feel less nauseous, although I wasn’t sure whether the sick feeling in my stomach was the hangover, or the anticipation of talking about Jay with someone who had recently seen him.

  Amy arrived with a magnificent tan, her arms jangling with Masai bracelets up to her elbows, with a huge necklace and a beaded rawhide shawl finishing the effect.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Blixen,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, if only…’ she said, taking a deep drink from the glass of champagne which had been delivered without her even having to ask for it. ‘I had such a marvellous time. But what about you? What on earth has been going on?’

  So I told her – the whole unexpurgated story, including the not insignificant detail that I hadn’t twigged who Jay was until after he appeared to have dumped me. Amy laughed so much at that, her champagne came down her nose.

  ‘Oh, you little twit,’ she said. ‘How could you be so stupid? Don’t you read Pratler?’

  ‘I mainly look at the pictures,’ I admitted.

  ‘I did wonder, when you asked him what he did for a living,’ said Amy, still snorting with laughter. ‘But I thought you would have worked it out by the time we were cruising around in a stretch limo being fawned over at every private club on the Riviera. My God, Stella, even that drag queen door-bitch at Wonderland knew who he was. Didn’t that seem a little odd?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Yes, but I thought she must have known him from New York,’ I said feebly.

  ‘And you didn’t figure out Spotter’s role?’

  I looked blank.

  ‘Bodyguard, you moron.’

  Now it was my turn to choke.

  ‘I mean, they’re mates, too, and everything,’ said Amy. ‘But Spotter’s ex-SAS and Jay takes him along whenever he thinks he needs a little extra protection. He doesn’t need him in London, but the Riviera is a famous hunting ground for kidnappers, as you know.’

  I just stared at her. I didn’t know any such thing. It was a completely alien notion to me. Then I remembered our long ride back to the hotel on a stolen moped.

  ‘Roman Holiday,’ I said out loud.

  Amy looked at me strangely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, but I was realizing just what a carefree interlude that must have been for someone who felt he needed the protection of an ex-SAS giant, just to go to a nightclub. The only difference was that Jay was in the pampered princess role, and I was the dumb journalist.

  Then I remembered what Amy had said about Jay being agitated over me. That was the bit I really wanted to know about.

  ‘You said Jay was upset with me, when you saw him – and come to think of it, what was he doing in Mombasa anyway? He was in Buenos Aires the last time I heard of him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Amy, shrugging. ‘He was probably seeing friends, or going to a party, something like that.’

  I sat and took that in. He’d been at the Cap Mimosa, just for the hell of it, then a brief spell in London, before heading off to Buenos Aires for a party, and then on to Mombasa, possibly just for drinks. That was how he lived. Crazy No wonder he didn’t understand me rushing off to work all the time.

  But I still wanted to know what he was so upset with me about.

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I need to know exactly what he said about me…’

  ‘Well, I think he rather likes you actually, but he was very upset about something that had come out in a magazine. Presumably that
thing in Hot Stuff! you just told me about. Yes?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said, looking thoughtful. ‘Now, you say reading that was when you discovered who Jay really was, yes?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s interesting, darling, because Jay is under the impression that you sold them the story…’

  ‘What?’ I was so incredulous, I nearly fell off my seat. ‘How could he possibly think that? I’d never do something like that – and how could I, when I didn’t even know who he was?’

  ‘Quite, and I believe you, darling, I know you would never do something like that – plus I fully believe you are dim enough really not to have known who he was. And that’s a good point actually, do you think Jay realized you had no idea who he was, if you see what I mean?’

  I thought for a moment.

  ‘Definitely. I’m sure he knew I hadn’t twigged who he was… And I’ve wondered ever since if that’s why he appeared to like me, because it must have been such a novelty.’

  ‘That’s what he kept saying, that he’d thought you were “untainted” and then it seemed you’d done this terrible thing, but he still couldn’t believe that you’d been stringing him along the whole time.

  ‘ “She seemed so real,” that’s what he kept saying, and that was what he was trying to find out from me – whether you were as nice as he had thought you were. I said you were, of course, but he was still very shaken by the magazine thing.’

  ‘But who told him that I’d sold them the story?’ I asked, suddenly. ‘I don’t get that either, and it didn’t even come out until after he’d already dumped me.’

  ‘Someone from the magazine got hold of him in advance to try and get a quote. Lord knows how they get the numbers, but they do. That’s why people like Jay are always changing their mobiles – the number you would have is out of date, by the way. Anyway, he “no commented”, of course, but then he asked them how they’d got the story and they said it was direct from you.’

  ‘So someone from Hot Stuff! told him I had sold them the story?’ I asked her, wanting to be sure I had it straight.

  Amy nodded.

  It was so weird, my head was spinning, but even in shock I realized there was one consolation I could cling to: I had a direct conduit to Hot Stuff! through Ned, so with his help I might be able to find out exactly what – and who – was behind all this nonsense.

  11

  My first impulse when I got back to the Journal after lunch was to run to Ned and get him to find out immediately from his girlfriend who had really sold the story to Hot Stuff!, but I stopped myself.

  I knew I needed to keep a cool head and to figure out my tactics carefully, and while I liked Ned enormously, I still didn’t know him well enough to fill him in on the whole thing. So I decided to bide my time, before I pursued it any further.

  I’d moved into my new office the day before – it was bigger than Jeanette’s, as Peter had promised, with great views west along the Thames – and I emailed Ned to come in so we could do some brainstorming for the section.

  It was really fun. We were going through a huge pile of international magazines which had just come in. We’d tear out anything we felt had the right feel for the section, then when we both had a large pile we’d compare notes and pin the best ones up on the blank wall opposite my desk. It was starting to look very enticing, that wall.

  We’d been in there for about an hour, reading, ripping and pinning, and the phone on my desk had rung a few times. As usual, I didn’t answer it, but then it began to ring more and more often until another call would come in, right after the last one ended.

  Then it got even stranger. It would ring three times, stop, then ring twice and stop, then once and stop, and then the whole cycle would start over with the same rhythm.

  ‘I think you better get that,’ said Ned, after it had happened three times. ‘Someone really wants to speak to you.’

  The next time it rang, I picked it up.

  ‘Stella Fain,’ I said in my most professional voice.

  ‘It’s Jay,’ said the person on the end of the phone.

  I glanced at Ned, who was already standing up.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he mouthed, reading the situation with his usual instinct.

  ‘Hello,’ I almost whispered, as I kicked the door shut with my foot.

  ‘You really don’t pick up that phone, do you?’ said Jay.

  ‘Er, no,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you call my mobile?’

  ‘I deleted the number,’ he said, sighing. ‘I was so angry with you, Stella, and I was wrong. Luckily, the switchboard number is in the phone book like you told me.’

  ‘You were misinformed, Jay,’ I said, getting back to the point. ‘And I can’t believe you thought I’d do something like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Stella. I’m really really sorry. It’s just I have been done over so many times by people, it can be hard to trust anyone. I should at least have called you and asked you straight up if it was true, but I was just so sad and disappointed, I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it anyway, Jay, even if I’d wanted to. I had no idea who you were until I read that stupid article.’

  He laughed, gently.

  ‘I know, baby,’ he said. ‘I know that… and if only it could have stayed that way. I was working up to explaining it all to you, I knew I had to, but I was enjoying being a blank page so much, I just never got round to it. And then you had to find out like that. What a dumb mess.’

  ‘I was followed by the paparazzi, Jay,’ I said, feeling completely at ease with him again, as I always had. ‘It was awful. They were sitting outside my house, waiting for me.’

  ‘Sorry again, but welcome to my world. I live with that shit twenty-four/seven, Stella, and if you would like to see me again – and I really hope you will – you’ll have to live with it too.’

  I just sat and took that in for a moment – both parts of the statement. I didn’t feel quite ready to answer.

  ‘Did Amy call you?’ I asked him, instead.

  ‘Yes, she left a message saying she’d just seen you and that I was completely wrong and that you were exactly the sweet, untainted English rose I had thought you were. Those were her words, but I agree with them, of course.’

  Now it was his turn to pause.

  ‘Do you want to see me again, Stella?’ he asked finally, very quietly.

  My promise to Ham flashed through my head. I had expressly promised him I would never see Jay Fisher again. It was the only thing he had ever asked me to promise him –and he had never broken any of the promises he had made to me, from earliest childhood.

  It was something he had always stressed. ‘I may be a faithless hound to all the other women in my life, but if I make a promise to you, Stella, I will always keep it,’ he’d say.

  And he had. If he’d promised he’d be home in time to read me a story, he had been. If he’d promised to take me to see Father Christmas in Lapland, he had.

  ‘Yes, Jay,’ I said, almost immediately. It was done, the promise to Ham was broken, I couldn’t help myself. ‘Of course I want to see you.’

  The moment I heard his voice I’d known I wanted to see him again. As soon as possible. Despite all the complications I now understood would be involved, from the attentions of the paparazzi, to his tendency to flit off to parties in Argentina, and, of course, my father’s deep disapproval, I still wanted to see him. Desperately, actually.

  Jay had touched something in me which no one else had ever got near. I still didn’t quite know how and why, but I wanted more of it.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked him, suddenly realizing I had no idea. He might still be in Mombasa for all I knew.

  ‘New York,’ he said, casually. ‘But I’ll come back to London as soon as I possibly can. Now, can you give me all your numbers and your email again?’

  And just a few minutes after he rang off, I had an email from him – with all his numbe
rs on it. I must have been still beaming about it all a few minutes later, when Ned came back into the office.

  ‘Good news, then,’ he said, smiling wryly, as he walked in.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, realizing that I had to maintain complete discretion about Jay from this moment onwards. ‘It was an old friend I haven’t heard from for ages. Great to speak to her. She’s, er, having a baby.’

  My new double life, as Jay Fisher’s girlfriend, had begun.

  When I got home that night, I got straight on the phone to Amy. I was already too paranoid to call her from the office about it.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to her. ‘Thank you for clearing my name. You are a true pal.’

  ‘Did Jay call you then, darling?’

  Yes, he did. Thanks to you.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad. So are you going to carry on seeing him?’ she asked, switching to her most confidential gossip tones. I could just imagine the twinkle in her canny eyes.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I lied shamelessly, slipping so easily into my new duplicitous role. ‘Too complicated, but I’m so glad that at least he knows I’m not a tabloid tart. I think we can be friends.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame you’re not going to go out with him,’ said Amy. ‘I hardly need to tell you now what a coup that would be, but it’s up to you, darling. I’m just happy I could help sort things out a bit. Do me one favour, though – next time he changes his mobile, would you let me have the new number?’

  I promised I would, gaining another little insight into how Amy’s world worked.

  A few hours later I was lying in my bath, up to my neck in bubbles, with music blaring out when my phone rang. It was Jay.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said. ‘I just had to call you again, I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I said. ‘Hang on a minute, though, I’ll turn the music down.’

  I stepped out of the bath and padded over to the stereo in my bedroom, still holding the phone, leaving large patches of bubbles on the floorboards.

  ‘Hey,’ said Jay, when I got back into the bath and put the phone up to my ear again. ‘That was Joni Mitchell you were playing. Blue, right?’