'Fine. What about you?'
'I'm catching the next available flight to Paris. The girls from the French PR agency are meeting me at the hotel.'
'Goodoh, and who's liaising back at base?'
'Sarah's coordinating staff in the office. Everything's under control.'
'I wouldn't have expected anything less of you.'
She gives an enormous sigh. 'It's horrible to think three people died just a matter of hours ago. And for what?'
'I know, Rachel, but we can't think about that now.'
Her voice is shaky. 'You're right. I'd better get going. I'll call you when I reach Paris.'
The phone line goes dead. I am chilled at my own lack of emotion, the effect of handling numerous grisly client crises over the years. Wearily, I download my emails and open Rachel's file. Alan walks in with a cup of tea as I pick up the phone to dial Manuel.
'Crisis?' he says sympathetically.
'Yes, but nothing that a strong cup of tea can't solve.'
It's been a long day. I sit with my feet up on the kitchen table drinking a glass of red wine while Horatio, our adopted baby hedgehog, rustles behind the fridge. It's gone midnight and Alan is pottering around the garden watering his plants. With a sudden stab of compassion, Miquel, our water siquier, arrived this afternoon and opened up one of the water channels in the field, enabling Alan to revive his wilting vegetables and plants. The H Hotel saga has rumbled on all day and Rachel will remain installed at the Paris hotel until the crisis eventually subsides. I have spent the last ten hours glued to the phone, placating the press and coordinating with the police in Paris – not an easy task with my rusty spoken French.
The telephone begins blaring and I give a long groan. Now what? Please God the hotel chef hasn't killed his lover too. I answer warily. A screeching, drunken female voice demands to speak with Alan.
'Who is this? Jan from where? Hang on.'
I find Alan by the pond. 'There's some dodgy woman called Jan on the line.'
He looks puzzled. 'That's one of the hen party from Birmingham staying at Pep's flat.'
He follows me into the kitchen. The hose is left running.
'Hello? Jan?'
I watch as he pads about the kitchen, his brow becoming more furrowed as he listens.
'It is past midnight,' he says robustly. 'What did you expect?'
The voice at the other end is so piercing that I can almost make out the words.
'OK, OK. I'm on my way.'
He bangs down the receiver. 'Would you believe that? Bloody women!'
He has a murderous look in his eye.
'What's up?'
'It seems that our drunken hens have gone the whole hog. They're smashed out of their heads and playing God awful disco music. The policia local received a complaint about the noise from the neighbour upstairs and an officer is waiting to speak to me now.'
I put my head in my hands. 'This can't be happening. Shall we call Pep?'
'I don't think it's fair. He's paying me to look after his flat. I'll go.'
'Call me if you need linguistic back up.'
He plods outside, turns off the hose and briefly returns, fumbling for the driving keys in a pot by the front door.
'So much for a quiet life.'
I hear the crunch of gravel as the car turns out of the drive. Walking back over to the table I charge my glas and glance lazily at my book, an ancient copy of The Bright Pavilions. A scraping noise comes from behind the fridge.
'Be quiet, Horatio,' I yawn.
Inko stirs slightly on her cushion and regards the fridge with some suspicion. The strange sound gets louder and more frantic until the cat springs from the chair and wanders over to investigate. I flop my book down on the table.
'Do I ever get any peace?'
Behind the fridge all is revealed. Horatio's paw has somehow become ensnared in a metal catch and he struggles desperately to get loose. With difficulty I begin heaving the huge silver fridge towards me, a disgruntled army of bottles clinking within. Horatio regards me with dark, startled eyes when I peer down at him, my hand carelessly resting on his sharp coat of needles. I stifle a curse and after an intricate operation manage to release the tiny paw. He gives a relieved snuffle and creeps off into the gloom of the garden. As I walk over to the sink and run my grazed hand under cold water, the telephone rings. I am tempted to leave it to bleat into infinity, but finally remove it from its cradle.
'Hello?'
It's Alan. I can hear loud disco music thumping in the background.
'Hi. I'm afraid we've got a bit of a crisis.' He hollers down the line.
'What on earth's going on?'
'It's the Birmingham hen party. The girls are completely sozzled and refusing to cooperate with the police. It's chaos!'
'What are they doing?'
'Dancing wildly around the flat wrapped in tinsel and precious little else.'
'I think you need back up. Let me call Pep.'
'It seems a bit unfair at this time of night.'
'Quite to the contrary, I think the prospect of wild Bacchic women swathed in tinsel will set his heart racing.'
'You're probably right,' he says wearily. 'Whatever you do, don't wait up.'
The line goes dead. Something tells me that Pep and the Scotsman will be dining out on this cracking tale for some time to come.
ELEVEN
DIVA MOMENTS
Tuesday 7.30 a.m., the club, Mayfair
Bernadette is sitting on the end of my bed and cleaning her thick-rimmed glasses with an old hankie.
'Oh B'Jesus! What a hoot. A cattery course? You've lost your marbles, girl, and that's a fact.'
I'm still in my running gear, having managed ten miles around Hyde Park and just returned to the club. The dreaded date of the New York marathon looms nearer and I'm upping my training considerably even though my old leg twinge has returned. Bernadette had pounced on me as I opened the door to my room.
'It's not that funny, Bernadette. There are loads of people running catteries.'
She's still tittering. 'I can just see you now in your wee suit and shiny heels mopping up cats pee.'
'Great. Well I'm glad to be the comic turn this morning.'
'You always are!' Her shoulders are shaking.
'Any chance of my getting showered and dressed?'
She rises slowly and pads out into the corridor. 'I'm only pulling your leg, darlin'. You'll love it… all those nice little furry things, God love 'em. When do you go?'
'Thursday.'
I grab a towel and potter off towards the shower. Even as I reach the bathroom door I can hear Bernadette cackling with laughter as she clunks a vacuum cleaner along the hallway ready for a murderous assault on the threadbare carpet.
10.04 a.m., The Berkeley, Knightsbridge
I rush through the swivel doors of The Berkeley, only to find Rachel pacing around the marble foyer in some irritation. She struts towards me.
'I've been trying to reach you.'
'Sorry, I forgot to plug the mobile in last night. I'm only a few minutes late.'
She shakes her head with some impatience. 'Look, it's not that. We've got a problem. Mary Anne came down a few moments ago to say that our meeting's got to be postponed until Thursday because Tetley thinks it's not a propitious time.'
'Oh for heaven's sake! I thought she decided these things in advance of Dannie's trips?'
Rachel raises her eyebrows. 'Apparently, Tetley had a vision last night. She said that Dannie should stay in her room today and consume only coffee, grapefruit and almonds.'
I pinch my arm. 'Ow!'
'What are you doing?' hisses Rachel.
'Pinching myself to check I'm not in an asylum. Listen, there's no way I can see her on Thursday. I'm at the Evening Standard all morning and having a quick lunch with Ed before leaving for my cattery course.'
'I forgot about your cattery visit. Can't you just cancel it? You know my views on the whole thing.'
'Absolutely not. I wish
you wouldn't gang up with Alan.'
Rachel runs a hand over her brow. 'Very well then, do you think you can talk some sense into them all?'
I call Mary Anne on her mobile and a few minutes later she descends in the lift to the lobby. As always she is dressed in a voluminous trouser suit, this one cyclamen pink. A small gold cross plays about her neck and her hair hangs lankly. She is harassed, but greets me with outstretched arms.
'Sugar, what can I say? When Dannie's in one of her moods, there's nothing I can do. She's refusing to budge from her suite and, between you and me, we had a bit of a nasty write-up in the New York Times today, so things are looking pretty ugly upstairs.'
Greedy George was right in his prediction. I have bitten off more than I can chew with Dannie, but I know that if I cave in to this madness now, we will forever be her slaves.
'If she won't leave her suite, we'll go to her.'
Mary Anne's lip wobbles. 'Impossible! She hardly lets anyone into her suite. She's still in her robe, and Rocky hasn't done her hair yet.'
I give her fleshy arm a little squeeze.
'Call her now and say I want to speak with her.'
She hesitates, staring at the mobile as if it's the trigger for a nuclear holocaust.
'Can't we do a meeting Thursday instead? She's tied up tomorrow, but...'
I shake my head. 'I can't do Thursday, Mary Anne. I have wall-to-wall meetings all day.'
Rachel flashes her blue eyes at me with the word WARNING emblazoned on them. I watch as Mary Anne, a film of perspiration on her top lip, makes the call. With a trembling hand she passes me the mobile.
'I'm afraid it's out of the question that we meet today.' Dannie's tone is surly.
'That's absolutely fine, Dannie. As you can't rearrange until Thursday and I'm busy all day, we'll wait till you're next over.'
There's a pause. 'But we urgently need to discuss the product launch at Conran. You'll have to change your meetings.'
'Sorry, Dannie, no can do. It's been difficult enough setting them up as it is.'
'You consider your schedule more important than mine?'
'Not at all, but like you I too have commitments.'
'But I'm not even dressed.'
'You're not leaving your room so does it really matter?'
Mary Anne is gawping at me with large, fear crazed eyes. I return the mobile to her.
'Oh my Gad. What did she say?'
'To come on up.'
Dannie greets us in a jade silk kimono and with her hair swept up in a towel. She is wearing big Chanel shades and there is a crimson sheen to her lips. Balancing a tortoiseshell cigarette holder between jewel-encrusted fingers, she ushers us in to her two room suite. The walls are salmon pink and the large windows, draped in crimson tartan, open out onto views of Hyde Park. On the walls are elegant framed pastel prints and vases of fresh flowers have been placed on occasional tables and on the dark mahogany desk. There are alcoves on either side of the window from which two white, stone figures gaze wistfully at the floral carpet. Beyond the salon, a door hints at the bedroom beyond, but all I can see is the corner of a gilt mirror and a soft green and rose patterned rug.
Dannie slams the window shut and shivers.
'It's awfully cramped in here. Mary Anne failed to book my normal rooms.'
Rachel gives a cheery smile. 'Oh, it'll be fine for our meeting.'
'That's the least of my concerns,' she snaps.
I ignore the sullen demeanour and sit with a business-like air on one of the crimson sofas. In front of me is a long mahogany coffee table on which are piled various glossy publications and a clutter of cups. Dannie follows my gaze and glares at her assistant.
'Get those cups cleared and order coffee and almonds.'
Mary Anne obediently scuttles over to the internal phone while Dannie collapses onto a comfy armchair and studies me for a few seconds, a thin smile playing on her lips. 'Do you play chess?'
'Not unless I have to.'
'You like card games?'
'They bore me to tears.'
She draws deeply on her cigarette. 'Russian roulette, perhaps?'
'Only on Fridays.'
Dannie throws her head back and laughs. 'What do you make of this?'
She plucks a newspaper clipping off the armrest of her chair and flings it towards me. I catch it mid-air, noting that it's the New York Times piece that Mary Anne forewarned me of. There's a photo of Dannie in a svelte black suit, her legs like long, thin liquorice sticks in dark tights, resting on the shiny desk in front of her. On the far wall is a portrait of Dannie and George Bush smiling together. The article headline reads: THE DEVIL WEARS CHANEL? I read on. It's a feisty feature, on the surface admiring of Dannie's business and charitable achievements, but underneath damning about her diva persona, lavish lifestyle, acrimonious divorce from a wellknown senator some years ago and the terse treatment of her entourage.
There's a knock at the door and room service arrives. Mary Anne clears the table and pours everyone coffee. I notice she has ordered a huge plate of biscuits. A bowl of salted almonds have been placed in front of Dannie.
I hand the newspaper cutting back to her.
'This Sarah Harper certainly doesn't hold back.'
'She's a bitch. A pathetic, sniping little reporter devoured by envy and greed. They're all the same.'
I feel myself frown. 'Would you say that about Frankie Symons?'
'Of course not, dear. What she wrote about me in The Telegraph was the stuff of dreams. But she's a one-off. The rest are a pack of grubby rats out to ruin lives.'
Rachel chokes on the coffee that Mary Anne has offered her. 'Steady on, Dannie! Most of my friends are in the media.'
She gives her a crisp smile. 'I'm sure you avoid the savages, Rachel.'
Mary Anne chomps nervously on her biscuit and gets out a stack of files. I see her reach for another chocolate morsel which she quickly devours before clearing her throat. Absent-mindedly, she brushes biscuit crumbs from her lips which settle on her notepad. She waves her ballpoint in the air.
'OK everyone, let's get down to work. Now…'
Dannie glowers at her. 'Stop!'
She removes her glasses for a second and peers into Mary Anne's face. 'Haven't I told you to wax your moustache?'
Rachel's eyes pop out. I study my file intently.
'I've been too busy, Dannie.' Mary Anne is crimson.
The glasses are back on. 'Fix it today. You know I cannot abide body hair.'
Shakily, Mary Anne picks up her notes, swallows hard and reconvenes the meeting.
Wednesday 6 p.m., H Hotel, Mayfair
It's the weekly guest cocktail event at H Hotel Mayfair. Jennifer Griffin, the eccentric and wacky executive manager is stalking around the lounge chivvying staff to get everything ready before the first arrivals. We have had our meeting and now she has persuaded me to stay for a glass of champagne and sweet talk some of her guests. Apparently, her deputy's off sick and the marketing manager is on business in Sweden so my support is needed.
'They're usually deadly dull, darling. Do hang about.'
I stand on the whitewashed floor boards, glass in hand, examining some of the weird abstract paintings adorning the walls. The furniture is minimal and black and the slate grey walls give the place a moody atmosphere beloved of pop stars and Hollywood A-listers. Jennifer is drawing frantically at a cigarette.
'I thought this was a non-smoking lounge?'
'Oh is it? Thanks for telling me,' she grins, defiantly wafting smoke in the air. A receptionist hurtles through the swing doors.
'I'm afraid we have a situation, Miss Griffin.'
Jennifer smiles serenely and follows her out of the lounge to the reception. Several guests arrive by the same doors and are offered cocktails by the attendant waiters. Slightly awkwardly, I go to greet them, jabbering animatedly about the wonderful attractions London has to offer, and about the hotel and its services. A large Texan observes me with a dark smile.
&n
bsp; 'Forgive me, but my wife says the drapes in this hotel are a disgrace. Have you seen how dirty they are?'
'Well, I can't say I've examined them too carefully, but…'
'You do work here, don't you?' he booms.
Jennifer is back, a look of controlled panic on her face. 'Ah, there you are,' she gushes, prodding my arm. 'I have a little problem to deal with upstairs so could you hold the fort for a while?'
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 17
