Last of the Summer Moët

by Wendy Holden

  After protracted consideration of whether bondage toe-rings were the new must-have accessory, Clemency wound things up. ‘Back to your desks.’ Not saying thank you seemed to be part of her style.

  Laura returned to her workstation to find her phone, once again, had disappeared. She had no doubt who the culprit was.

  Karlie smiled a pearly white smile up at her. ‘I don’t have it. Security came for it while you were in the meeting.’

  ‘Security?’

  ‘Apparently you’ve been contacting persons in touch with terrorist groups.’

  There was a collective gasp. Everyone in the office was listening. ‘Terrorist groups?’ repeated Laura.

  Clemency’s secretary tossed her glossy blonde ponytail. ‘Security monitor all calls going to and from the building. According to them a text had been sent this morning from you to a person well known to the security services.’

  Laura, now understanding, slapped her hand on Karlie’s desk with frustration. ‘That was Ellen O’Hara. She’s a war reporter, she deals with these people. I’m interviewing her today. I was texting her to confirm the rendezvous.’

  Karlie maintained a glassy smile.

  ‘I need the phone back!’ Fear had gripped Laura’s insides. It had Ellen’s address in it. As well as all her notes and questions. Without it she would not know where she was going. Or what she was asking.

  ‘I’m afraid security are examining the phone. They could be some time.’

  Laura’s mouth fell open. ‘But I need it now! I’m going to the interview in a minute.’

  ‘Can’t help. Sorry.’ Karlie picked up the phone. ‘Is that you, Honor? Just to say that Clemency’s on her way. She’ll meet Christopher in the lobby in a few minutes.’

  Laura stood rooted to the spot. She felt suddenly certain that this was part of a plan, a plan Clemency was behind. But why did Clemency want her phone removed from her? She was writing a feature that would benefit Society, after all.

  Then, suddenly, Laura got it. Clemency had set her up to knock her down. Allowed her to arrange the interview and get Christopher interested only to make sure she failed to deliver it.

  Well, she bloody well would deliver it!

  Laura grabbed a notebook and pen and headed out of the door. She’d just have to rely on old tech, and her wits. It would hardly be the first time.

  *

  It was Monday lunchtime in the Golden Goose, and quiet. Kiki Cavendish was eating at her desk; avocado on toast – supplies were back to normal now – washed down with lemon in hot water. Hervé still hadn’t quite got the hang of this, serving the entire fruit at a rolling boil rather than just a slice. Sometimes it was hard to believe he was a top-flight chef.

  From where she sat she could see the bar and the disarmingly boyish, side-parted head of Sir Philip Peaseblossom enjoying steak and ale pie with one of his spooks.

  As with mushy peas, Hervé had not been keen to produce this traditional British dish and mixed vodka instead of beer with the meat and offal. As this was the version Sergei Goblemov preferred when he dined at the Golden Goose, Kiki had kept it on the menu.

  The spook seemed to be enjoying the revised recipe too. But then, he was an old Moscow hand. Kiki was trying hard not to stare at him or betray in any way that she recognised him as the focus of a recent tabloid manhunt after details were revealed of a plot to impeach the American president. Journalists had pursued him all over the country to a number of so-called safe houses. But there was nowhere safer than Great Hording, of course, where a figure such as this could hide in plain sight and drink a pint of beer in her pub. Kiki felt it was a sign that, following recent upheavals, Britain’s most fortunate village was slowly returning to normal.

  Looking away over the sculpture garden, Kiki took a deep, relieved breath. She had been especially comforted by Sir Philip’s assurance that his best and finest tech people were investigating the source of the recent leaks. Kearn from the Fishing Boat Inn was on borrowed time.

  She took another bite of avocado toast, tried to sip the water without the lemon hitting her nose and continued her morning’s task; updating her confidential list of Great Hording’s inhabitants and their associates.

  There were a number of alterations to make. One of Tim Lacey’s daughters had a new boyfriend. His name was Damright Jones and he was seventeen, a former young offender and modelling’s new ‘It’ boy. Kiki took her time studying the adverts in which Damright appeared in boxer shorts, or with his jeans unzipped. Perhaps it wasn’t out of the question, Kiki thought, that Ottoline Lacey’s ‘hot felon’ was connected with the leaks. But surely not. Damright was clearly as dim as a tree and Tim Lacey, whose Hollywood estate stood to depreciate in value, would never allow any such thing.

  The next piece of updating concerned Lulu, now a bona fide villager thanks to the purchase of Riffs. That house, Kiki thought angrily, was a menace, allowing in all manner of undesirables. Lulu’s associates – the mole Kearn most obviously, and the dark-haired girl Kiki was now sure was the Lorna Drake who had tried to book a room – were still more dangerous.

  She had mentioned as much to Sir Philip Peaseblossom who had promised to act on it. ‘Don’t worry, my dear Kiki,’ he had grandly assured her. ‘We’ve got it covered. Walls have ears in Great Hording. Every window has a camera.’ Kiki did not say that this was exactly what she was afraid of and what had caused all the problems in the first place.

  She saved her updates, took another bite of toast and turned to the next item on her agenda; a refresh of the Golden Goose’s decor. A place with such a sophisticated clientele needed to stay one jump ahead of developments on the interior design front. The question was what jump, and in what direction?

  The Mad Goose Group’s consultant interior designer, the internationally famous Buzzie Omelet, had advised ‘a more lively aesthetic.’ Plans had been drawn up accordingly and here they were now in Kiki’s inbox. Opening the file, Kiki read that every redecorated room would have its own beehouse, dumb-bells, NutriBullet and trimphone in RAF blue.

  Kiki didn’t like the sound of this at all. Nor did she especially like Buzzie, who she suspected of being her rival for Jonny’s affections. She planned to thwart her redesign plans with a daring new aesthetic of her own.

  Kiki was wondering about a bondage effect with black leather walls, enlarged photographs of nipples and standard lamps with basques instead of lampshades. It was a strong look, which she planned to showcase in the shepherd hut to start with. But would that work? There was a real possibility that shepherd’s huts themselves were over. Maybe the wheels could be taken off. Yes! That was it! The Golden Goose would start the trend for – sex huts!

  Kiki triumphantly finished her toast and sent the idea off to Jonny. He would love it, she was sure. And now what? The afternoon stretched gloriously ahead, perhaps beginning with a spot of abdominal kneading followed by a massage with essential oils and a Himalayan salting session. She might end up feeling like a focaccia but it was important to put the facilities she presided over through their paces and make sure that standards were being maintained.

  After that, maybe a spot of ear candling. She needed to make sure her aural facilities were in tip-top condition. There was a pantomime rehearsal this evening in the village hall, just a skeleton run-through for those villagers still be in Great Hording on a Monday. Most, of course, had returned to the capital to run the country, if not the world.

  Tonight, Kiki exulted, her interpretation of the role as landlady of the Village Idiot – a role created especially for her! – would, under the expert tutelage of Lady Mandy, take its first tentative but ultimately triumphant steps in public.

  Yes, things were definitely looking up. So much so that Kiki decided to permit herself one of her favourite indulgences, a sneak peek at Mail Online. It had been at least half an hour since she last looked.

  Three minutes, no more, Kiki told herself sternly as she pressed the icon on her desktop. Not including the time it took to loa
d the page. She watched the paper’s Gothic title appear, expecting to see the same Sidebar of Shame she had recently read, packed with improbably named, skimpily clad blondes whose short-lived, fly-on-the-wall fame couldn’t be more different from the masters and mistresses of the universe, the truly powerful, amongst whom she spent her days.

  The headline had changed, Kiki noticed idly. Previously it had been something about Kate Middleton’s dress causing the Poundworld website to crash, but this new one looked more interesting. She read it again, more carefully.

  TINSELTOWN MELTDOWN AS TOP DIRECTOR’S PRIVATE EMAILS LEAKED TO STARS AND STUDIOS

  Hollywood was today in uproar as private emails from the account of Tim Lacey, celebrated director of Tufnell Park, were distributed widely among...

  In the Golden Goose’s shady bar, Sir Philip Peaseblossom’s highly trained eye caught a sudden movement. ‘Didn’t happen to notice what that was, did you?’ he murmured to his companion.

  The hunted spy, spearing the last piece of kidney, looked round. ‘Oh, that manager woman’s just fallen off her chair. Looks like she’s fainted.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In normal circumstances Laura loved the London riverside. Especially the South Bank with its view of St Paul’s and, at night, the illuminated buildings of the Square Mile. Now, however, as she hurried along the Thames Path, her insides tugged with panic.

  She could remember only that Ellen lived in Shad Thames, some converted Victorian waterside warehouses adjoining a shopping centre. But there were probably hundreds of flats there; however would she find her?

  It was not only frustrating but humiliating. Ellen, an experienced journalist, would think it pathetic she had lost her phone through such an obvious trick.

  Laura hurried past the London Dungeon and the bars and restaurants lining the narrow cobbled streets. There was cloak-and-dagger atmosphere here for those who paused to detect it; shadows of footpads and Elizabethan playwrights. But Laura rushed on towards the brick warehouse buildings; storage for goods from the river in bygone days but now, fitted with glass balconies and zooming lifts, the home of wealthy metropolitans. Scanning the rows of windows, Laura wondered which one belonged to Ellen, and in which block. She glanced at her watch; three minutes to spare, and felt clammy with panic.

  ‘Laura, isn’t it?’ The voice came from behind. A woman’s; low-pitched and authoritative. Laura wrenched herself round. Blonde hair, red lipstick, a white blouse. And, for some reason, a pint of milk.

  ‘Ellen!’

  ‘I’m so glad we found each other! I was running late and my phone’s dead.’ She was in front now, cutting through the drifting shoppers, leading the way into one of the buildings.

  Hurrying after her, Laura shot a look up at the blue London sky. Saved again. Thanks, Dad! Peter Lake must be in despair by now, even so, at such an incompetent daughter. She needed to make a success of this interview, for all their sakes.

  In the small, shiny lift, Ellen eyed her apologetically. ‘I’m just back from Heathrow. I got your message on the red-eye.’ She waved the pint of milk. ‘This is all the shopping I’ve managed to do. Lunch might be a bit scratchy.’ She flashed a red-lipsticked smile.

  Laura smiled back. She was about to say that she wasn’t hungry anyway, but realised that wasn’t the case. Not only was Laura, like all Frenchwomen, always hungry at mealtimes, she was especially hungry today as following last night’s drama at Cod’s Head Row she had completely forgotten to eat. Mid-morning, she’d pinched a handful of Haribos from the fashion desk – Raisy and Daisy lived on them, along with cigarettes – but that hardly constituted breakfast. Especially after a weekend of Vlad’s eggs, bacon, sausages and toast. There was nothing quite so full nor quite so English as breakfast prepared by a formerly male Latvian.

  They emerged on the top floor and Laura followed Ellen into an apartment laid with blond wood. Light flooded in from floor-to-ceiling glass doors that took up the entire wall and led to a balcony overlooking the river.

  Ellen twisted the key and pulled back the heavy panels, which glided easily down their rubber-lined grooves. The smell – fresh, briny – and the sound of the river floated up; seagulls, the honk of boats, the general roar of London, borne on the moving tide. The view was stupendous; the City’s glass towers, Tower Bridge, the Tower itself. London, thou art the flower of cities all, Laura thought to herself, looking down the wide highway of glittering water.

  ‘What a place,’ she breathed, thinking if she lived in this apartment she would just sit out all day on this neat little balcony and watch the world go by. Even a stellar international career wouldn’t be enough to tear her away.

  ‘You look just like him, you know.’ Ellen was appraising her coolly, slim, tanned arms folded in the white shirt which even an overnight flight didn’t seem to have creased. ‘Tall, dark and handsome. That was Peter.’

  Laura felt something twist within her. This woman had known her father. Worked with him.

  ‘He was a great journalist,’ Ellen added. ‘The very best. I learnt most of what I know from him.’

  ‘I learnt nothing from him,’ Laura said enviously. ‘I never knew him at all. Not really. There are a few memories, very faint ones, but that’s all.’

  Leaves rustling in the bright sun. The cool stone floor of a white-walled house. The scent of cigarettes. The sound of a man laughing. A staccato noise that might have been gunfire, might have been typewriter keys.

  Ellen was smiling at her. ‘You didn’t need to learn, you inherited it. You’re a very good writer, you know.’

  ‘You’ve seen my stuff?’ Laura was surprised.

  The red lips spread in a wry grin. ‘I love Society. You couldn’t make it up.’

  ‘You’re teasing me,’ Laura accused, dismayed.

  ‘No, no. Your work is the best thing about it. You’ve done some great reports. Your Three Weddings one.’ Ellen shook her blonde head. ‘Amazing. What are you working on at the moment?’

  Laura opened her mouth, preparing to tell her about Britain’s Best-Connected Village. Then she hesitated. It was a great story, and Ellen was a great journalist. A much more experienced one too; she might do a much better job. Could she trust her?

  ‘Celebrity pets,’ Laura hedged. ‘Bouncy Castle’s wolfoodle. What my father would have made of it I can’t imagine.’

  ‘He would have been proud,’ Ellen said staunchly. ‘How’s your mother, by the way? Shallow as ever? Sorry, that’s a bit rude.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Laura assured her. ‘Probably more so, if anything. Lives with her third husband in Monaco.’

  ‘Yes, that would figure. God knows what she was ever doing with a brain like Peter. Who’s the husband? A semi-celebrity hairdresser, I’m guessing. Gets flown out to yachts to give oligarchs’ wives the full Mrs Khrushchev.’

  Laura was giggling. ‘Spot on. He’s called Leon.’

  ‘With a tan deeper, crisper and more even than the Feast of Stephen?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Ellen clapped her hands. ‘Priceless. I’d expect nothing less of Odette. Quite a woman, I always thought.’

  ‘Definitely,’ Laura spoke ruefully.

  ‘She taught me a lot about war reporting,’ Ellen said, unexpectedly.

  ‘What?’ This was a whole new angle on her mother.

  ‘Absolutely. After I heard she used to claim designer underwear on Pete’s exes, I decided to do the same myself. I don’t know where I’d be without it now.’ Ellen’s blue eyes sparkled in a manner Laura wasn’t entirely sure was serious. ‘Victoria’s Secret came in very handy in East Timor, I can tell you.’

  They talked about clothes for a while. Her unvarying white shirt, tan trousers and loose chignon were, Ellen explained, less about an iconic style than about being practical. ‘One less decision to make.’

  Laura nodded. Her navy jeans and shirt were worn for the same reason.

  ‘I love your French girl look,’ Ellen said, generously. ‘That fring
e! Who does your hair?’

  Laura remembered Carinthia asking the same thing when they had met in Paris. Laura’s answer, ‘ciseaux de cuisine’ – kitchen scissors – had made Carinthia assume Caesar de Cuisine was a top hairdresser. ‘I do it myself. Cut it out of my eyes when it gets too long.’

  ‘Me too!’

  Ellen lit a cigarette. ‘Want one?’

  Laura slid one out of the proffered packet and inhaled gratefully as the light was offered. The smoke slid into her lungs, sweet and head-spinning. ‘Do you know what happened to my father?’ she asked suddenly, seizing the moment.

  The answer was a sequence of perfect smoke rings. ‘Last I heard was what you’ve probably heard,’ Ellen said. ‘He was in a helicopter over the desert. With a guy from Newsweek and another from AP. Seems they were shot down.’

  ‘But nothing was ever found.’ Laura took another long drag of cigarette.

  Ellen shot Laura a sympathetic glance, finished her cigarette and shoved its butt in a plant pot in the balcony’s corner. She pressed a hand on her shoulder, and went back inside.

  Laura stared at the river briefly, then followed. This meeting was about Ellen, not her.

  Her subject, however, had disappeared. Tracking her down, Laura passed a couple of open doorways and glimpsed a bare but functional bedroom and a plain white bathroom. No decoration was visible here any more than in the apartment’s plain sitting room. But with a view like that, perhaps you didn’t need it.

  Ellen was in the apartment’s small, shiny aluminium kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards and fridge doors. She turned to Laura apologetically. ‘Shit. I’ve literally got nothing.’

  ‘You must have something.’

  ‘A couple of cloves of garlic. Some ancient spaghetti. That’s it. No wine, dammit.’

  ‘I can make something from that.’ Laura crouched to rummage in the cupboards. ‘And look, you’ve got oil, and salt and pepper. And a tin of anchovies! This is a feast! Stand aside!’