Last of the Summer Moët

by Wendy Holden

  Lulu submitted with little more than a shrug. Laura sensed she had lost interest in SmartButler anyway. Wonky was due any moment and she needed to prepare for this great meeting of horticultural minds. ‘Go to put my ho dress on,’ she said, which seemed inappropriate, to say the least. Laura had long learnt, however, not to come between Lulu and her wardrobe.

  Her own interview with Kearn took place over tea. It was served by Vlad with all the trimmings; a Versace tea set from the London house and a matching cakestand with tiny smoked salmon sandwiches, cakes and biscuits.

  ‘Wow,’ said Kearn, tucking in with gusto. ‘Crusts off and everything. I’ve never had tea this posh.’

  ‘You deserve it,’ Laura said warmly. The more at ease he felt, the more likely he would be to confide in her.

  They were sitting on Riffs’ terrace, a paved stone patio leading out from the windows of the satanic dining room. The furniture here was just as overdecorated; great padded thrones in bright Indian print glittering with sequins and heavy with tassels. Above them loomed large, intensely decorated, fringed Oriental parasols. All you needed was a few elephants.

  The sun was now fully, strongly out and bounced brightly off the surface of the swimming pool where Wonky, in her usual uniform of tight jeans and tight white T-shirt, was standing with Lulu sporting a gardening vibe. Her gold handbag was shaped like a trowel and the advertised ho dress turned out to be just that – printed with hoes.

  ‘I think dandelions over here, in this corner,’ Wonky was saying. ‘And perhaps speedwell here, and birdsfoot trefoil. I can get the plants at cost from my supplier in Nicaragua.’

  Laura turned her attention back to Kearn. Now was the moment. She decided not to beat about the bush.

  ‘All these leaks,’ she said. ‘Who’s behind them, do you think?’

  He was sipping from one of the Versace teacups. The gold on it flashed in the sun. ‘No idea. Everybody thinks it’s me, of course.’

  ‘They do,’ Laura agreed. ‘And of course you’ve got form.’

  He didn’t bluster, as she had expected. Rather, he reached for another sandwich and nodded. ‘The Little Hording Popular Front.’

  ‘And you had the opportunity,’ Laura added.

  ‘At the quiz, yes,’ Kearn agreed. ‘I could have taken that picture, easily.’

  ‘And you probably know a bit about hacking.’ Laura kept her voice matter-of-fact, but her insides were tightening as they always did when on the verge of a big discovery. Was Kearn about to confess to her? Decide the game was up?

  ‘I do,’ he concurred, selecting a cake with a swirl of pink frosting on the top, scattered with silver balls.

  ‘You could have got Lady Mandy’s list and found out about Willow as well.’

  ‘I could,’ Kearn shifted in his seat.

  A few seconds elapsed.

  ‘So,’ Laura said, toying with the tassel trim on her chair. ‘Did you?’

  A few seconds more of silence, during which Kearn looked at the paving stones. She waited, hardly daring to draw breath in case it should distract him from whatever confessional path he seemed to be considering. Excitement flashed through her as he raised his head and looked her straight in the eye.

  ‘No.’

  She wasn’t sure if she was dismayed or relieved. ‘No?’

  ‘Please believe me, Laura.’ Kearn leant forward. ‘I’m the obvious suspect, and that’s impacted on Wyatt. I would never have done it, precisely for that reason. I’m no fan of Great Hording and most people who live there, and I don’t mind admitting it. But Wyatt is more important to me than any of them. So it wasn’t me, no. I didn’t take the picture and I didn’t leak the information. But I’m as keen as you to find out who did. Because the sooner they’re discovered, the sooner the heat’s off me and the sooner I can see Wyatt again.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As the Sunday night train gathered speed, Laura fought to raise her spirits. It was a warm, close evening and staying in Great Hording seemed infinitely preferable to returning to the city. London, for the time being at least, had lost its allure. Formerly the focus of all her ambitions, it seemed to have much less to offer these days. Clemency Makepeace was in the job that was rightfully hers and forcing her to do demeaning articles. Her attempt to raise herself above them and interview Ellen O’Hara had come to nothing. There had been no reply.

  In which case, Laura told herself sternly, she needed to find someone else to interview instead. So she’d better start looking.

  Resolutely, Laura unpacked from her bag the great mass of Sunday papers she had bought in the station newsagent and began to study them. Predictably, they were full of the forthcoming general election. The Prime Minister, looking even more exhausted than usual, glared out from the front pages, promising a strong and stable government.

  Whether Jolyon Jackson would be part of it was a moot point. He had entirely fallen from the news agenda; no pictures of him preying on children in hospital this weekend. The Great Hording-related story that all the papers were covering was Willow St George’s junk-food-and-slavery fall from grace. ‘QUEEN OF CLEAN’S DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS,’ the Sunday Times headline, was typical.

  There was good news for Caspar though. His dream had come true; his prediction had been correct. The nominations for the Ivys, the newly established International Film Awards, had just been made public and Caspar actually was up for Best Actor in The Caucus Imperative, the first Bond ever to be nominated for an acting award.

  Exactly why, Laura could not guess. Caspar had only acted himself, but perhaps the judges felt Bond’s display of macho vanity to be a thespian tour de force. Some of the arts correspondents covering the list thought so, while others less charitable sniped that it was a stunt to launch the fledgling ceremony. If so, it had been successful. The coverage was considerable.

  Should she send him a congratulatory text? Laura wondered. No, he had been an utter shit to her – taking up with Savannah Bouche just hours after leaving her in bed. On the other hand, petty wasn’t her style. She would be magnanimous.

  The text had just gone when the phone vibrated in reply, provoking, despite herself, a leap of pure excitement.

  It was not Caspar, however, but someone even better. Ellen O’Hara, who Laura had given up hope of hearing from, had finally replied. Don’t normally do interviews – I’m the reporter, not the story – but will make exception for you, for Pete’s sake.

  The Pete’s sake was not an expression of impatience, but a reference to her father, Peter Lake. Laura’s spirits soared. Saved! She glanced up to the striplights on the carriage’s ceiling. ‘Thanks, Dad!’

  Can you come to my flat Monday lunchtime? Ellen had finished. There followed an address in Shad Thames, on the river’s south bank.

  The text, Laura realised, must be several days old. Perhaps the weird scrambled atmosphere of Great Hording had delayed it. Because Monday was tomorrow!

  She needed to prepare this interview carefully. Laura flicked hastily through the Sunday Times, looking for Ellen’s latest report. That would give her something to start the conversation off, at least. There was nothing, however. Whatever story Ellen was now working on, it was either not finished, or not started.

  Taking up her trusty smartphone, Laura started some online research. There was plenty about Ellen, and lots of photographs. Here in a refugee camp, there in a war-zone sandstorm, here with some villagers, there with a reigning monarch. Always groomed and glamorous with her characteristic loose chignon, red lipstick, white shirt and fawn trousers, like a latter-day Lee Miller.

  ‘Her work has earned her the respect of her peers, the admiration of a global readership and the fear of dictators, despots, bigots and war criminals worldwide,’ read one summary of her achievements. Laura felt suddenly apprehensive. What would such a bold and principled woman make of her job on the glitziest of glossies? Ellen O’Hara was sure to think her a lightweight. An idiot, even.

  Well, Laura told herself determinedl
y, I am not an idiot. I am Peter Lake’s daughter and Harry Stone’s sort-of girlfriend. Possibly. Or possibly not. But Ellen is in a position to give me some answers about both of them.

  The Sunday train was hot and slow and it was well after nine when Laura turned the corner into Cod’s Head Row. As ever, the place was alive with hipsters determined to make the weekend last as long as possible. As Laura passed Gorblimey Trousers, Bill waved from behind the counter. ‘You look like you need a bubble bath!’ he yelled.

  ‘Thanks,’ Laura shot back, offended. She could certainly use a shower, but it was none of his business.

  ‘It means laugh, dear.’ Ben had popped up inside the doorway, bearing a tray of cocktails. He nodded towards them. ‘Come in and have a Vera. Take the weight off your plates.’

  Vera Lynn – gin; plates of meat – feet, Laura remembered. She decided to take the two of them on at their own game. ‘I’d love to,’ she explained apologetically, ‘but I’ve got to get upstairs. My Chalfonts are murder at the moment.’

  She walked off, but not so fast as to miss Bill and Ben stretch their eyes and mouth, ‘Chalfont St Giles – piles,’ at each other.

  Grinning, Laura opened the battered door to her building and started the weary climb up the dusty, uncarpeted wooden stairs. She was surprised to see, on reaching her landing, that her door was open.

  Her first thought was Edgar. But how? She hadn’t given him a spare key; who in their right mind would? Had he broken in looking for Xanax?

  ‘Edgar?’ Laura strode in, the heels of her Chelsea boots echoing on the thin old floorboards. The only sound was her own gasp; the flat had been ransacked. Admittedly, it was always messy, but this disarray was on another level. In the sitting room, cushions were strewn across the floor. In the bedroom, drawers had been pulled from the chest and Laura’s small wardrobe cast across the bed, whose sheets had all been yanked from it and the pillows hurled in a corner. In the bathroom, the small mirrored cabinet was open, its contents in the basin. Even the loo roll had been dragged off its holder.

  Whoever it was had been searching for something. But what? Nothing seemed to be missing; she had nothing, after all, to miss. Not in a material sense, anyway. The unkindest cut – in every sense – was the little herb garden Laura grew in pots outside the window. It had been completely, wantonly destroyed. Her unwelcome visitor had dug around in the soil with something sharp, cruelly levering up earth and uprooting plants. They lay spattered and dirty in the kitchen sink.

  Looking around, hands pressed hard against her narrow hips, Laura felt a hot flame of fury roar up within. The mess was scary but the plants really hurt. They had come from Paris, grown from clippings from Mimi’s Montmartre herb garden. It was Laura’s belief that they tasted better than anything you could buy in London.

  Having repotted them as best she could, Laura watered them tenderly and rinsed her hands. Then, fuming, she stomped up the next flight of stairs and banged violently on Edgar’s door. After a few seconds it opened and a pair of wary eyes looked at her through oversized geek glasses topped by a mop of unbrushed, dark hair.

  ‘Laura!’ He sounded relieved. ‘Thought you might be Diego from last night.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Laura stormed.

  ‘I’m getting ready to go out,’ Edgar returned mildly, opening the door to reveal a pale torso in a black string vest. ‘New club tonight. It’s called the Dog Track and—’

  Laura cut him short. ‘Spare me the details. What’s happened to my flat?’

  The eyes behind the thick glasses widened. ‘Your flat?’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Edgar! You’ve obviously trashed it. Were you looking for pills?’

  Edgar’s mouth dropped open. ‘Laura, I swear I haven’t. I haven’t been here all day. I’ve just got back myself.’

  ‘Not been here all day?’

  The shaggy head twisted in a no. ‘I’ve been home, as a matter of fact. To see my parents.’

  ‘To Great Hording?’

  Her neighbour looked surprised. ‘You know about Great Hording?’

  Laura gave a noncommittal shrug.

  ‘When Dad said they had a mole I thought he was talking about the garden,’ Edgar went on. ‘But it turns out some cat’s putting all their secrets on the internet. It’s the landlord’s son from the Fishing Boat Inn, apparently.’

  Laura, about to correct him, desisted. She didn’t wish to hint at her own interest in the story, and anyway, they were going off the subject. If Edgar hadn’t trashed her apartment, who had? And why?

  ‘And good for him, frankly,’ Edgar went on.

  ‘Good for him?’

  ‘I mean, bad news for the village, but good news for me. Compared to him and his evil doings, I suddenly look quite harmless. Dad’s even increased my allowance!’

  Laura glared at him. ‘Didn’t you notice my door was open when you got back?’

  The shaggy head shook guiltily.

  Laura, exasperated, was about to vent her frustrations on his uselessness as a neighbour, but Edgar spoke first. ‘Actually, Laura, I think it was shut.’

  ‘My door was shut?’

  ‘I’m sure it was. In fact I know it was. I knocked on it to see if you had any vodka.’

  Laura stomped back downstairs, ruminating. If the door was closed when Edgar returned, it meant one of two things. Either the intruder had been in there, intruding, or he had not yet arrived. Meaning that the invasion of her property had only just occurred. She could have passed the ransacker in the street. The thought sent a chill down her spine.

  Laura spent an uneasy night dropping off and then waking up suddenly with a jolt. She tried hard to convince herself that her visitor was some mere opportunist, who’d maybe slipped in behind Esme the life coach when she let herself in. So self-absorbed was Esme that a tank could follow her unnoticed. Either that or she would try to give it life advice.

  So, an opportunist then. The lock on her door was only a latch; the sort easily opened with a credit card. She had been casual with her security, Laura realised. But what did she have to steal? Nothing that she knew of.

  Although...

  A chilling thought now struck her. Were her unwelcome visitors looking for something else? A laptop, maybe? Computer files? Could they have found out about the exposure she was planning? Were the burglars working on behalf of Great Hording, whose all-powerful denizens would naturally wish to suppress any more bad news?

  Or was she just being paranoid?

  Laura was up with the larks – or the Cod’s Head Row equivalent (early morning foragers passing beneath her window). She arrived in the office even earlier than usual. Even so, Karlie was earlier, wafting around in high heels and a white shift dress placing a sheet of paper on everyone’s desk. Laura seized hers, expecting the worst. Was Clemency sacking everyone?

  She read the notice and felt relieved. Clemency was merely demanding that no one brought phones to the daily meetings. If attention was to be paid, it was to be paid to her.

  Laura spent the time before the rest of the office arrived researching her Ellen questions. She had had a remarkable career and had met practically every powerful person on the planet. ‘She’s like the sixteenth member of the UN Security Council,’ one former US Secretary of State enthused. ‘If she pays attention to an issue, so does everyone else.’ Ellen sounded, Laura thought, more daunting all the time. Harry had said nothing about any of this when introducing the two of them at the NDY Club.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded, twisting round irritably as, for the third time in the last ten minutes, Karlie came sashaying past her desk. She seemed to be looking at what Laura had up on screen, no doubt to report back to Clemency. But so what? Clemency had, albeit unwillingly, approved Ellen as a subject.

  The Monday morning features meeting adhered to what had, under the new editor, become the accustomed formula. The more trivial and posh the subject matter the better, which had been the rule with Carinthia too. The difference was that Carint
hia had had a glimmer of humour, and could even be slightly subversive, while Clemency had absolutely none. Carinthia had stopped calling into the features meetings, although whether by choice or instruction was not clear.

  Once everyone was sitting down (senior staff) or standing up (if you were a junior), the meeting began.

  Venetia the interiors editor produced a small bottle. It was filled with something powdery and grey. ‘Stardust!’

  A disbelieving Laura listened as it was explained that this was actual dust from celebrities’ houses, as gathered by their cleaners. ‘You can get a mixture, or particular slebs’ particular dust, but that’s more expensive.’ Venetia shook the vial. ‘Sprinkle a little Stardust everywhere!’

  ‘Genius!’ said Clemency.

  Selina the travel editor had been to a resort with a bison-only restaurant.’

  Anais looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t realise bison went to restaurants.

  ‘It only served bison,’ explained an exasperated Selina. ‘And you could buy a Lichtenstein off the walls.’

  ‘But isn’t Lichtenstein a country—’ Anais was beginning, when Clemency cut in.

  ‘Put it in the next issue!’

  Raisy and Daisy were referencing game-changing re-invention, or perhaps game-changing reinvented referencing. Laura was too busy thinking about her Ellen interview to follow all that they were saying. Her experience anyway was that the more closely you listened, the more confused you got. Whatever they were doing, they were doing it in a turquoise velour pointy hat (Raisy) and a transparent military fieldjacket (Daisy).

  Laura had thought the meeting over when Clemency’s dangerous, sharp green eyes suddenly swung on her. ‘Bouncy Castle’s wolfoodle,’ she snapped.

  ‘Bouncy...?’

  Clemency glared. ‘Castle. Her real name’s Lady Rose but everyone calls her Bouncy.’

  ‘What’s a wolfoodle?’

  ‘A cross between a wolf and a poodle. Bouncy’s is called Attila. Do it next for the pet series. After the chicken.’

  Laura had no choice but to nod and hope the meeting would not drag on much longer. She was meeting Ellen for lunch at her flat and would have to set off in ten minutes.