Paul was on his feet again, hurtling round the glass pen that was his office. It was tiring to watch, but at least gave her a good view of his slim, rangy figure. Eugenie wondered what he’d do if she grabbed hold of him and undid the silver buckle on his belt.
‘Why is your brother called Kipper?’
Suddenly London’s advertising whizz-kid looked five years old. ‘Because he could never wake up in the morning.’
That’s it, thought Eugenie. She could never rest, in an interview, until she’d got an angle, plus a kill line, the one that would end her piece.
Sleepy Kipper would be her kill-line.
She switched off her Sony. ‘I think I’ve got all I need, Paul. Except, could I have a pic of you and Kipper. We’d like it for the cover.’
In all the time she’d worked at Stet, Revel had only ever paid for one photo, and that payment Eugenie had wrung out of him, for David.
‘Shall we do lunch?’ Paul said.
As they passed the girl wearing two yellow hats, Paul said, ‘Zelda, look out that pic of Kipper and me. We’re going to be on the cover of Stet.’
‘What’s that, Pauly?’
‘Stet, Zelda. It’s a magazine. Like what you read. Except you don’t read. You just mouth the words. Take the pic and my CV round to Stet magazine. They’re at 22 Garrick Street.’
‘Where’s that, Pauly?’
He sighed. ‘The taxi driver will know. And if Kipper rings, tell him I’m over the road.’
As he guided Eugenie down the one flight of stairs, he muttered, ‘Bloody useless.’
‘Why do you keep her?’
‘Oh, you can’t get rid of them. Not nowdays. They demand severence pay, money in lieu of holidays, even a decent reference. I tell you, girls are getting really bolshie. That model, the one we used in the Orchid campaign, the photographer, Gavin Lime, he’s quite famous and he came on to her, well what did she expect just wearing her knickers, and she gave him such a mouthful. Afterwards I said sorry about that Gav, and he said you tell her, if she wants to work with me again she can give me a real mouthful. No blow job, no job, that’s my rule, he said.’
Paul was escorting her across the road to Bertorelli’s. He took her upstairs, where he was obviously expected. He waved the menu away and said to Eugenie, ‘They do very good Escalope Milanese here. Would that suit you?’
‘That would be lovely,’ Eugenie said, fearful that if she said she was sick of Escalope Milanese she would be marked down as bolshie.
Paul ordered a bottle of Bull’s Blood. ‘Not Italian, of course,’ he said to Eugenie, ‘but gets the job done. Kipper drank a whole bottle of it when he was plumbing in our washing machine. He won’t show for lunch, of course. Very reclusive is Kipper. Always shy, from when he was a kid. I don’t do shy. Do you do shy Evie?’
Demurely, she shook her head, thinking she really would like to get his pants off. He was so cocksure, something in her itched to give his cock something to really think about.
‘So you share a place with your brother?’
‘Yeah, above the shop. Got it cheap, before Charlotte Street became Ad Man’s Gulch. Soon as we started up, all the competition got in on the act and followed us here.’
‘Tell me, Paul, what’s next for you?’
He downed his glass of Bull’s Blood. ‘Now this is totally confidential, Evie. Off the record. I can trust you, can’t I?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said, wondering if Kipper was going to walk in on them in bed this afternoon. Or was he already at home, rearranging his stamp collection?
‘We’re having talks with a guy who’s developing a new board game. You play Monopoly, Evie?’
Everyone played Monopoly. David had fought to get Old Street, whereas Eugenie always hung on, expensively, for a little red hotel in Mayfair.
‘What we’re planning, is a board game sort of based on Monopoly, but where you can personalise it. Include the streets, the areas, that mean something to you.’
Stupples Road, Eugenie thought. But Oxford Street where she and David had met, and Marylebone, where they had lived, they were already on the Monopoly board.
‘The working title’s GERCHA, because that’s what you shout when someone gets sent to jail. I mean, it’s in the language, isn’t it, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect £200. I’m quite fond of Gercha as a concept, but Kipper wants a name that tells people it’s about buying and selling property.’
‘How about Homebase?’ suggested Eugenie, emboldened by the Bull’s Blood and glad to see he was ordering another bottle.
He took her left hand across the table. ‘Evie, you are an absolute dream.’
‘I’m sorry not to have met Kipper.’
‘No, well he had to go off and find shoe trees.’
For dessert, Paul ordered them both tiramisu, which he explained was a sort of Italian trifle. Eugenie found it too sweet, but happily accepted a brandy.
He called for the bill. He held her arm as they went downstairs. In Charlotte Street, he hailed a taxi. He kissed her on both cheeks and murmured, ‘Pity you’re married, Evie.’
He saw her into the taxi, and she was sped away, seething.
*
Revel was in the office, but fortunately he was far drunker than she was. He was lurching between the coat-stand and his red metal filing cabinet. Somehow, he managed to keep hold of a quart of gin and a bottle of Eno’s fruit salts.
‘Best thing for a hangover. Got to meet Rhoda off the train. This place is mad. Just had a girl in here, looked like a parrot. She was wearing two yellow hats. Said her name was Zelda. Who the hell’s called Zelda nowdays?’
Who the hell is called Revel, Eugenie could have asked. But she knew why he’d been called that. ‘Our revels now are ended,’ Bobo’s mother had mourned, fearing that his arrival on the planet would put paid to her interesting social life.
‘Still, she brought me some chocolate.’ Revel ate a RAVE and gulped down more gin and Eno’s. ‘Where is Mr Plantagenet?’
‘He’s in Romania. He’s been to Nepal and now he’s in Transylvania.’
‘Dracula and all that.’ Revel adopted his world-weary air which Eugenie considered was overdoing it, considering Revel regarded a train trip to see Rhoda in Cambridge necessitated a passport and an official welcome from the Lord Lieutenant of the County.
Rhoda was, in fact, due to meet the Cambridgeshire Lord Lieutenant at a cocktail party the following month.
‘He’s the official representative of the Royal family, so he stands in for them when they’re off launching a ship or something elsewhere. Rhoda’s nervous that if the Lord Lieutenant’s representing the Duke of Edinburgh, does she have to curtsey to the fat old fool? Must be weird being the Duke of Edinburgh. Things are named after you. Pubs, Channel ferries. Must be worrying waking up and hearing on the News you’ve burned down, or sunk.’
Revel took a final swig of his hangover cure and got himself into his trenchcoat and trilby. By the time he’d dragged everything off it, somehow, the coat-stand looked drunker than he was.
‘Won’t be in tomorrow. Showing Rhoda the town. But you’ve got that Lockett piece to get on with. Get anything out of those boys?’
‘I didn’t meet Kipper. He was out buying shoe trees.’
Revel sniggered, and suddenly the editor and Eugenie were laughing uncontrollably. Every time they tried to catch hold of themselves, one of them would say ‘Shoe trees!’ and away they’d go again.
We’re both drunk, Eugenie thought, and Revel’s got to paint the town red with Rhoda. Perhaps he’ll take her to the Purple Pussy Cat Club. The advert invited fun-lovers to Come Purr With Me.
Seeing Revel was about to stagger off, Eugenie said, ‘I got an exclusive out of Paul. They’re going to launch a new board game. Something to rival Monopoly.’
I know, I know. It was supposed to be confidential. Strictly off the record.
But you shouldn’t have done that, Paul, she thought. You shouldn’t have given me the brush-off,
you shouldn’t have shoved me into that taxi like a bag of filthy laundry. You shouldn’t have said, ‘Pity you’re married.’
*
At ten o’clock the following morning, taking advantage of Revel’s absence, she made what was to prove to be a very significant phone call.
‘Goodmorning, Mrs Plantagenet,’ said a young woman with striking, Joan Collins looks. ‘I’m Marsha. I’ll be looking after you today.’
Eugenie was in the City offices of the Patric Ryan Partnership. They were a firm of top international lawyers. Eugenie was not here as a journalist.
Marsha led the way through an outer office where an austere woman sat glaring at a terrified typist. Marsha took Eugenie into her own office and firmly closed the door.
The office was oak panelled, with dark blue silk curtains and a comfy, though stylish sofa fronted by a glass-topped coffee table. Marsha ignored her desk and went to a small table holding a kettle and the necessaries for tea and coffee.
‘Do make yourself comfortable, Mrs Plantagenet.’ Marsha indicated the sofa.
‘Do you like my office? I was allowed to choose everything myself.’
Eugenie wasn’t just admiring the office, she was stunned at the way Marsha was dressed. The dark-haired young woman was wearing a simple black dress and over it, a waisted jacket in silver-grey. The body of the jacket was plain, but the grained reveres shimmered like rain.
‘I could get them outside to make coffee, but I prefer to be independent. Would you like tea, coffee or –‘
‘I don’t mind. As long as it’s not Nestea.’
Marsha giggled. Everyone had got used to Nescafé instant coffee. No one had understood was Nesquick was. And Nestea had been an overwhelming disaster.
‘Try this herb tea. I get it at Fortnums. Woodland Berry. Smells lovely.’
On the coffee table in front of her, Eugenie was glad to see a copy of Stet.
Marsha brought across two huge Conran cups containing fragrant reddish liquid. ‘I loved what you did on Dulcie Day.’
‘How did you know Evie Dare was me? I didn’t say anything about Stet when I rang to make an appointment.’
Marsha smiled. ‘Homework. You know Dulcie tried to sue you?’
‘No?’ This was news to Eugenie.
‘She didn’t come to us, she went to a solicitor some of the Royals use. I’m not breaking a confidence, because everyone in the legal profession knows, and knows that dear Dulcie was very firmly shown the door by every legal practice in London.
Wait till I tell Revel, Eugenie thought. She had told Revel she would be out all day. ‘Dentist. Anaesthetic. Big job.’
Revel hadn’t demanded any more details. He was squeamish about medical matters. When Bobo had been coming down with measles, his mother had found him in a stranger’s garden, crying.
Marsha was looking at her expectantly. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Plantagenet?’
‘Well – I expect you’d like to take notes. Or do you use a tape recorder?’
‘Neither. I have a very retentive memory. Afterwards, I’ll type up everything we’ve discussed, and I shall file it myself in my own filing cabinet. Now you talk, and I’ll listen.’
Half an hour later, Marsha said, ‘Do you smoke?’
‘No.’ Eugenie had noticed the large glass ashtray on the table. Presumably, many people suffered from nerves at a time like this.
‘Do you mind if I have a herbal?’ Marsha said. ‘Helps me concentrate.’
She fetched a mint-green packet of Salem and a mother-of-pearl lighter. She offered a Salem to Eugenie, who accepted. It was long and thin and tasted of dry grass-cuttings.
‘So you came to us, Mrs Plantagenet, because your mother recommended us. That’s Mrs Marisa Dare. Before my time, I’m afraid. Your full names are Eugenie Virginia. You live at Medway Mansions in Marylebone. You are a British Citizen. Your date of birth is February seven, 1946. You married Mr David Plantagenet in March 1970. You have no children. On January the first, 1971, he left England to embark on a round-the-world trip. And what you’re asking me, Mrs Plantagenet, is whether you have any grounds for divorce.’
‘That’s right. I don’t know when he’s coming back. And I really feel, in terms of my personal life, I’m neither one thing nor the other. People don’t know how to respond to me. Am I married, or aren’t I?’
‘Clearly, in the eyes of the law, you are definitely married. But I can see the problem you have socially. Do you think Mr Plantagenet would want to divorce you?’
‘No. Absolutely not. I’d have to divorce him.’
Marsha was silent for quite some time. Then she said, ‘I have to ask you this, Mrs Plantagenet. Were you and your husband sexually active? I have to know, you see, that your marriage was consummated.’
Eugenie laughed. ‘Oh yes. It was that all right.’
‘I see. In that case, we can’t go for an annullment. Frankly, you’ve presented me with a very difficult problem. We can’t go for desertion, because that would be after seven years, and your husband has only been away for eighteen months. And you’ve been writing to him?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Loving letters?’
‘Oh yes. I mean, he must get lonely, you know.What I wondered, really, is if we could just have a friendly divorce. Just until he comes back.’
‘Mrs Plantagenet, in this country there is no such thing as a friendly divorce. Believe me. You have to be seen to be totally at war with one another. The fact that you’ve been writing to him in the way you have, would be considered by the judge to be collusion. Judges never take kindly to collusion. They fear the couple are taking the mickey, and judges don’t like that. I take it, by the way, that you haven’t informed Mr Plantagenet about your visit here today?’
‘No. Oh no. I wouldn’t want to upset him.’
Eugenie realised she was sounding as contrary as a love-sick teenager.
‘What you could have, is a legal separation. But frankly, I rarely advise that. Once again, you’d be neither one thing nor the other and your men friends wouldn’t know where they stood.’
Marsha rose to her feet. Even in four-inch black heels she still looked tiny. But efficient. Boy was she.
‘Let me consult with my senior colleague. He may know a way to help that I haven’t thought of. I have your phone numbers, but I presume you would prefer to be called at home?’
‘Please.’
Marsha was at the door. Eugenie thanked her, and then said, ‘Do you mind me saying, I just love that jacket.’
‘Thanks. I got it at that snooty shop in South Molton Street. Cost a bomb, but’ she winked, ‘I’d got a whopping Christmas bonus.’
The austere woman in the outer office announced, as they passed through, ‘Your twelve o’clock rang to say she’s on her way, Miss Watson.’
‘Thankyou, Mrs Armstrong.’ Marsha shook hands with Eugenie, and saw her out.
As the door closed, a tall dark-haired man went to open it, looked hard at Eugenie and said, ‘Was everything satisfactory for you, Mrs Plantagenet?’
Chapter Seven
He was wearing a pale grey suit, white shirt and a moss-green silk tie. When he smiled at her, she saw his eyes were grey-green.
‘I’m Andrew Millard,’ he said. ‘I’m a Partner at Patric Ryan. I just wanted to make sure you found everything satisfactory.’
‘Yes. No. I mean, it’s just so complicated.’
‘Why don’t you come to lunch and tell me all about it.’
He opened the door and called, ‘Mrs Armstrong, book the Caprice, would you. Table ten as usual.’
‘Yes Mr Millard.’
Out in Threadneedle Street, the road was heaving with traffic. This was the City, the country’s financial centre, crushed into one square-mile which was always congested.
Yet immediately, as if from nowhere, a taxi zoomed up. The dark-haired man hadn’t even raised his hand.
In the taxi, Andrew sat next to her, while managing to give Eugenie t
he impression he was sitting some way away. She learned he was from Galway.
‘You don’t sound Irish.’
‘English school.’
As the taxi raced to overtake a bus, Eugenie was thrown against Andrew and realised his suit was silk. And his watch, she noticed, was Cartier.
When they had passed the Ritz and were turning into Arlington Street, Eugenie said, ‘Why is it the Patric Ryan Partnership? Why not Ryan and Millard?’
‘Because Patric Ryan’s more widely known than I am. He’s known worldwide. He’s like a brand.’
‘You mean like baked beans?’
They were both still laughing as they entered the Caprice. Immediately, they were escorted to Table ten, where Andrew insisted that she sit facing the room. Had she been with David, they would have indulged in star-spotting. People tended to dress up to lunch at the Caprice and wave at their fellow stars.
But Eugenie sensed this wasn’t Andrew’s style. She didn’t know quite what she’d done wrong with Paul. She did know she didn’t want to mess anything up with the dishy man sitting opposite her.
He asked for a kir. She told the waiter she’d like a gin and tonic.
‘Yes, madam. Would you prefer lemon or lime?’
‘Lime, please.’
They studied the menu. Andrew wanted the duck.
‘I’d like the lamb,’ Eugenie said, ‘but do you think they’d mind if I asked for it not to be pink?’
‘Eugenie,’ Andrew Millard said, ‘When you’re with me you can have anything, at any time, any way you want.’
Some invitation, Eugenie thought. I shall take you up on that one. And at least he knows I’m married.
Over lunch, she ran over with him her meeting with Marsha. Andrew nodded. ‘Sounds as if Marsha’s covered the waterfront. She’s dead right about collusion. When a couple split up, the law expects them to live separately and have nothing whatever to do with one another, except through their solicitors. Obviously, for a lot of people, running two homes in the run-up to a divorce isn’t practicable. So they save money by living under one roof, but living separate lives. Now obviously, they’re unlikely to have separate kitchens, separate washing machines. But if the woman shoves the man’s laundry into the machine, then legally, that’s collusion.’
In Bed with Mr. Plantagenet Page 12
