by Annie Lyons
‘The point is, this book isn’t going to work. We’ve paid far too much money, which we will never earn back. We have no guarantee that anyone will even like it, let alone shortlist it for a prize. And even if it does win, who says the punters will actually buy it? I mean the Booker’s all very well, but what does it actually deliver in terms of revenue and profit? You editors make it very difficult for us at the coalface, you know. So, as a precaution, Jacqui’s put in a call to Richard and Judy. I’m going to need your author on best behaviour at the Ivy next month, OK?’
Joel sits back waiting for Emma to show her appreciation. Emma Darcy has never been a girl to disappoint. Before she knows what is happening, she lurches forwards, grabs a handily place wastepaper bin and vomits, accidentally splashing Joel’s shoes. They look at one another astonished before Emma wipes her mouth with a tissue and makes for the door, bin in hand without a backward glance or word. She almost collides with her godmother Rosie, who is striding down the corridor arm in arm with Miranda, two extravagantly colourful powerhouses of energy.
‘Darling! I’m just having coffee with Mimms. Take you for lunch afterwards?’
‘Wonderful,’ says Emma with a smile. ‘I’m suddenly starving!’
Rachel feels one of her eyes open and realises that her eyelid is being lifted for her by a three-year-old’s finger.
‘Wake up, Mummy,’ sings a sweet angelic voice. When she attempts to close her eye again, its pitch and tone intensify. ‘Wake up, Mummy. Now!’
Rachel tries to open both eyes simultaneously and glare at her torturer.
‘Alfred, Mummy has got a headache!’
‘Yeah, Dad said you had too much beer,’ says Will, who has just wandered into the bedroom.
‘Oh he did, did he?’ mumbles Rachel, feeling an attack of ‘bad mother with a hangover’ syndrome coming on. ‘Where’s Lily?’
‘Downstairs, watching Milkshake. I turned it on for her,’ adds Will proudly.
‘Clever boy,’ says Rachel weakly ruffling his hair and checking her watch. ‘Oh bloody hell! We’ve got to get Will to school in twenty minutes.’
‘Oh bloody hell!’ shouts Alfie with glee.
Eighteen minutes later, Rachel has bundled herself and the children into the car and armed each of them with a banana. ‘A good, nutritious breakfast,’ she declares.
‘I wanted porridge,’ says Lily, doing her best grumpy princess face.
‘And I want two weeks in Barbados with George Clooney. Sometimes life is so unfair,’ says Rachel.
Predictably, as they near the school, there isn’t a parking space to be had, but Rachel spies a car about to leave and angles the steering wheel, indicating her intentions. As if from nowhere, a shiny black 4X4 screeches behind the departing car and bulldozes its way into the vacant space.
‘Oi!’ Rachel bellows causing the gathering parents to turn and stare. ‘I was just about to park there!’
A sharp-faced skinny woman in a velour tracksuit, her ash blonde hair scraped back in a severe ponytail, climbs out of the tank and approaches Rachel’s car. ‘Are you talking to me?’ she snarls with the charm of a rabid dog.
‘Yes. I was going to park there. I was indicating and you pushed in.’
‘Ahhh,’ says the woman, ‘poor you. What do you want me to do about it?’
Rachel realises that the children have gone quiet and that most of the parents are now watching the show. She spies Verity looking over, nudging a fellow alpha-mother. Oh well, in for a penny, she decides.
‘I want you to move.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I want you to move, so that I can park there. Please’
‘Oh, and why should I do that?’
‘Because, it is the right thing to do and I am asking you nicely.’ The woman wrinkles her face with a look that says ‘whatever’, so Rachel continues. ‘Plus, your car is new and shiny and my car is old and battered, so you wouldn’t want me to accidentally scrape it when I reverse past on this incredibly narrow road, would you?’
The woman gives Rachel a look of pure venom and Rachel wonders if she is about to be punched.
‘Fucking nutter!’ she mutters and flounces back into her car, roaring off in an ozone-layer-destroying fug.
‘What did that lady say?’ asks Will.
‘Chucking butter, darling. I think she was a bit crazy,’ says Rachel, pulling into the space and flashing Verity a saintly smile. Her phone chirps and she sees that it’s Sue.
‘Hello, love. Can I call you back in a sec?’
‘Sure, but I just called to say that Joe is still poorly, so I’m not going to make Soft Play today.’
‘Soft Play?’
‘Don’t tell me you’d forgotten?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Well, Christa’s going, so will you go along anyway?’
‘Sue, I have a hangover and was hoping to go home, bung on Cbeebies for Lily and Alfie and go back to bed for an hour.’
‘Ahhh, poor you. It’s up to you my love, but I think Christa is hoping you’ll go.’
‘That’s right. Make me feel even more guilty than usual.’
‘That’s my job! Don’t forget to text me with any more of Christa’s revelations. There has to be a cross-dressing brother in that family at least!’
Rachel snorts. ‘Will do. Big kisses to Joe-Joe.’
She ends the call and notices that a text has arrived. It’s from Emma: ‘I hate you. x’
Rachel laughs and flings open the door for Will.
‘See you later gorgeous.’
‘Mum!’ protests Will as she attempts to kiss him. She manages to aim one on his head before he wrestles from her grasp. He bolts into the playground, following the rest of his class into school.
‘Right. Good, Soft Play then.’
‘Ooh Mummy I love Soft Play. Can I have a chocolate croissant? Pleeeease?’ squeaks Lily.
‘Oh yeah baby,’ says Rachel suddenly feeling a little better at the thought of an indoor venue with coffee and baked goods to hand. Her optimism is short-lived as they pull in to the car park of Jambalaya with its ambitious strapline ‘Where dreams come true’. The queue of rabid two- and three-year-olds is snaking out of the door and round the wall with its cheery Eric the Elephant sign. In fact, Eric is working the queue as they arrive. He is having a tough time as one determined three-year-old hangs on to his trunk and, given the menacing look in his eyes, is pretty set on ripping it from his face. Rachel unloads the kids and scans the line for Christa. She spots her waving from the front of the queue and gesturing for Rachel to join them. Rachel is still a little shaken by her earlier run-in with the 4X4 driver and approaches Christa with caution, perfectly ready to join the back of the queue.
‘Rachel, come on and join us! You don’t mind, do you?’ she says to the man behind her.
‘Well actually –’ he begins, before a man the size of a bison and a bear bolted together, wearing dark glasses and an enormous black suit appears and growls in a thick Eastern European voice, ‘Thees laydee eez weeth us, OK?’
The objector decides against further objection. ‘Erm, OK.’
The gorilla slips back into the shadows and Rachel looks at Christa for an explanation.
‘Oh ja, sorry Rachel, how rude of me. This is Rory. He is Roger’s bodyguard.’
Rachel almost doesn’t want to ask. ‘His bodyguard?’
‘Ja. It is because of Rudi and his connections.’ She looks around and then whispers, ‘He thinks we can’t be too careful.’
‘Blimey,’ says Rachel wondering how long she can leave it before excusing herself to go and text Sue. ‘So what do you think they would do?’
‘Oh kidnapping perhaps. I think Rudi worries too much, but what can you do? Rory is a very nice man. Roger loves him.’
Rachel glances over to see Roger, Lily and Alfie practising their combat skills on Rory. He does not react until Roger karate-kicks his groin. Rory flinches and groans, but then high-fives Roger.
‘H
e is teaching Roger self-defence. Pretty good, nicht wahr?’
The next two hours are wholly enjoyable for Rachel. She and Christa drink coffee after coffee, while the children run around like loons. At one point the elephant-torturer attempts to pick a fight with Alfie, until he is told by Rory to ‘Play nicely’ and doesn’t trouble anyone again.
‘Wow,’ says Rachel. ‘It’s great having a bodyguard.’
‘Ja, it is sehr gut, but you have to make sure they are very discreet. The last one we had tried to sell stories to the press about us.’
‘Goodness,’ says Rachel. ‘What about?’
‘Ah, they said we were swingers. Completely nicht true of course. Just because I have a rubber sex-suit in the wardrobe, doesn’t mean I will share my pickle with anyone.’
Rachel almost spits her latte down her front. ‘That’s –’
‘Ja, I know. Terrible. You just cannot trust these bastards,’ says Christa, ‘but Rory is family, so it is much better.’
‘Oh it must be,’ says Rachel reflecting, not for the first time, how dull her life is.
Emma sits back in her chair feeling momentarily nauseous and then, after a round burp, much better. The waiter looks disgusted but changes his sneer to a sycophantic smile as Rosie sweeps past him, returning from what she likes to refer to as the ‘powder room’.
‘Honestly, this place really has gone downhill. There used to be an attendant handing you warm towels and now they’ve got hand-driers. I mean! Hand-driers! No wonder this country is going to the dogs. So darling, feeling better for a feed?’
‘Yes thank you. That was lovely.’
‘What was it last night? A book launch? Dinner with an author?’
‘Oh no, just an evening in the pub with Rachel.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie wrinkles her nose with distaste as if Emma has just presented her with a large dog turd. ‘Why?’
Emma laughs at her godmother’s snobbishness, reflecting how like her own mother she can be.
‘It’s a really nice pub and you know how Dad always taught us to appreciate the good things, like real beer.’
‘Ah yes, your father always did have strange taste,’ says Rosie. ‘And how is dear Teddy?’
‘He’s fine. He seems to be enjoying his grandchildren and making the most of retirement.’
‘Yes, of course. The quiet life. Never really appealed to me. And how about your mother?’ She utters this last word with poorly hidden disdain.
‘She’s OK. She’s trying to hijack my wedding, but I guess she means well.’
‘Oh darling, that’s awful. Well you simply mustn’t let her!’
‘Easier said than done, I feel.’
‘Would you like me to have a little word, you know, woman to woman?’
Emma knows this will send her mother into orbit. ‘It’s fine Rosie. Thank you, but I can handle it.’
‘I’m sure you can, my dear, but you must let me help in some way. Shall I ask Stella to make your dress, or see if Elton can play at the church?’
‘That’s really kind, but we’re trying to keep it low key. To be honest, we haven’t set a date yet.’
‘Oh well, when you do, let me know. I’m happy to offer any assistance. Just ask.’
‘Thank you. I do appreciate it. Rosie?’
‘Darling girl?’
‘Why did you never marry?’
‘Ah, the million dollar question. Actually, I was married.’
‘Really? When?’
‘Many years ago when I was too young to care and thought life was so romantic.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was in the sixties when everything was so easy and you could fool yourself that you were in love. Alas, it was just a joke to him and he did not love me. So we got a divorce and never spoke of it again.’
‘Wow! Was he your true love then?’
‘No, not really.’ Rosie looks suddenly old, her make-up caked face sagging with some secret sorrow. ‘No, I was in love with someone else but he didn’t love me so I married Ralph but it didn’t work out. End of story.’
Emma feels as if she’s prying. ‘I’m sorry.’
Rosie snaps out of her stupor and smiles at Emma. ‘Don’t be, darling. I’m not. It’s ancient history and some things just aren’t meant to be. Anyway I am far too selfish to be a wife and I love my job too much. But enough about me. This is supposed to be about you and your gorgeous new author. I take it he is gorgeous?’
Emma feels uncertain of how to reply without incriminating herself. ‘He’s a very talented writer.’
‘Aha! Guilty as charged m’lud. Clearly the dish of the day and intelligent to boot. Wonderful.’
‘Yes, but I am practically married.’
‘Tish and pish my dearest. Enjoy it while you can. Flirt away and enjoy your job. It’s part of the rich tapestry of life. Speaking of dishes, how is Martin?’
‘He’s lovely and taking me away for the weekend to some posh hotel.’
‘Feeling guilty is he?’ says Rosie.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Excuse the bluff voice of experience, but when a man spoils his beloved, he is either expecting sex or feeling guilty or both.’
Emma remembers the flowers, champagne and home-cooked dinner coupled with the revelation of a visit to his parents. ‘He just likes to spoil me.’
‘Lucky girl! I hope you have a wonderful time. Don’t forget to pack your raciest underwear!’
‘Rosie!’
‘What? I still have a pulse you know!’
‘Honestly, I am packed, but I’m not telling. I better get back to work. I need to show willing after a shocking morning and I want to leave a bit early so we can avoid the traffic tonight.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Rosie lifts her finger and the waiter is by her side with the bill before you can say ‘deliciously overpriced restaurant’.
‘Maaaarm! I can’t find my Cinderella dress!’
‘OK, Lily, I’m just trying to help Will find his Spiderman mask.’
‘Mummy. I want a cuddle!’ Alfie waves his chubby arms. Of her three children, he is the clingiest and the most loving, but he does pick his moments. Rachel kneels down and accepts his pudgy embrace, but tries to multitask by flinging Will’s clothes into the open rucksack.
‘Doan want to go Granny’s,’ insists Alfie.
‘Oh darling, Grandpa will be there and you love Grandpa, don’t you?’
‘Nooooo!’ shouts Alfie.
‘Yes you do!’ says Rachel tickling his tummy.
‘No, I don’t!’ insists Alfie, unwilling to be pacified
They are interrupted by a loud rat-a-tat at the door.
‘Daddy!’ cry three jubilant voices.
‘No. Guess again,’ says Rachel.
Will opens the door.
‘Grandpa!’ cheer three happy voices.
‘Grandpa!’ cheers Rachel, giving him a hug.
‘At your service, my lovelies,’ he smiles. ‘Now who wants to jump in Grandpa’s Balamory bus and come for a sleepover?’
‘Me!’
‘Me!’
‘Me!’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ says Rachel and means it.
‘You,’ he says embracing her in the warmest hug she’s had for a while, ‘are more than welcome. Have a lovely weekend, don’t worry about a thing and promise me you’ll talk to Steve?’
‘I promise,’ she says and she means this too.
Once the kids are dispatched, Rachel mixes herself a large gin and tonic and flops onto the sofa. The home phone rings and she answers with a sinking feeling.
‘Rach?’
‘Steve. If you’re about to tell me what I think you’re about to tell me, I will not be happy.’
‘Chill your beans, missus. I’m phoning to see if you want red or white tonight? I’m on my way home and I want you in bed wearing something saucy by the time I get there.’
Rachel smiles. This could actually be a good weekend.
Chapter
8
Emma opens her eyes and tries to remember where she is. She catches sight of the four-poster bed and expensive-looking heavy curtains, and remembers the weekend break. She also spots the empty bottle of champagne, underwear on the floor and stockings still tied around the bedposts. Must have been a goodnight, she thinks, as the form in bed next to her stirs. She moves towards him. ‘Fancy an encore?’ she whispers.
‘Mmm, yes please. Let’s seal the deal again,’ answers a voice which isn’t Martin’s.
‘Aaaaargh, Richard!’ Emma jolts herself awake. Fortunately, she can hear Martin singing Elvis songs in the shower and then she sees the empty bottle, underwear and stockings.
‘It’s like a bloody porn version of Groundhog Day,’ she mutters.
‘Morning, sexy,’ says Martin from the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but a grin. ‘That was some mighty fine lovin’ you were givin’ out last night. Fancy an encore?’
Emma shudders inwardly. ‘All in good time,’ she replies. ‘A girl needs her breakfast after nothing but champagne and sex for dinner.’
‘Oh, boo-hoo,’ complains her fiancé, giving her bottom a stinging slap on his way past. ‘Woof!’
‘Thank you, Prince Charming. Whatever happened to romance?’
‘It died the day they invented filthy sex.’
‘I’m going to cleanse myself of my sins.’
‘You’re going to have to have one long shower then, Sexy Pants.’
After breakfast, Emma attempts to distract Martin’s one-track mind with a walk around the grounds. It’s a beautiful day. The autumn leaves still clinging to the trees are the perfect mix of orange, crimson and yellow and the sky is a pale blue with only the merest wisp of cloud. The air feels crisp and fresh but the sun is taking the edge off any chill. Emma has dug out her favourite long striped scarf and warm comfy boots and is kicking a trail through a spongy pile of leaves.
‘Might be dog poo in there,’ warns Martin.
Emma looks around at the stately home grandeur and shakes her head. ‘I doubt it. Or at least if there is, it will be super-posh five-star poo.’ She picks up a handful of leaves and flings them at Martin.
‘Right, you’re for it!’ he declares, picking up a large armful and chasing after her.
