Last of the Summer Moët

by Wendy Holden

  She had only just recovered from this shock when another swept through her. They were passing someone else she recognised. A tall man with broad shoulders. Young, with dark hair. Standing just back from the road, in the lee of a gatepost, as if he were waiting for someone.

  She had seen him for a second only, but there was no doubt. Harry Scott. Definitely him this time.

  Confused, shocked but most of all excited, Laura breathed deeply to calm her rioting heart. There could be an explanation; she had texted Harry about her previous sighting of him in the village. Had that brought him here to surprise her? She got out her phone and checked it. No message.

  Or was there another, more obvious reason? Laura stared at the car’s white padded ceiling. Karlie and Harry. In the same place at the same time. That was why he was here! He had a tryst with Clemency’s horrible secretary!

  A rush of heat spread through her, for all the car’s powerful air-conditioning. This was why he had not been in touch! And what lay behind Karlie’s superiority, the impression she always gave of knowing something Laura did not! It explained everything!

  Had they met in London? Did it matter? The point was, Ellen had been wrong. Way off the mark. Harry didn’t love her after all. And he certainly didn’t need her!

  ‘Is everything all right, madam?’ came the solicitous enquiry from the chauffeur’s seat. ‘You look, if I may say so, rather pale.’

  *

  Laura stumbled onto the train. All the way back to London she stared at the newspapers without reading a word. Harry and Karlie.

  The train wheels, rattling down the track, repeated it endlessly. Karlie and Harry... Harry and Karlie... Karlie and Harry... Harry and Karlie...

  Back in Cod’s Head Row, Laura hurried past Gorblimey Trousers. She was in no mood for the good-humoured cockney barracking of transplanted Californian tech executives. Still less the possibility that her flat might, once again, have been broken into. Please God it hadn’t. She could not, Laura felt, endure another shock that day. Her heart thudded in her chest as she opened the front door of her building, crashing it loudly behind her before going up the stairs as noisily as possible.

  The flat was as she left it, however. Perhaps, after all, the initial break-in had been speculative, unconnected with the Great Hording investigation.

  Another positive was that Edgar seemed to be out, so Laura took advantage of the undisturbed quiet to polish her report. Writing always soothed her, the choosing of words, honing of sentences, the shaping of ideas into paragraphs. It took her jittery, unsettled mind to another place, somewhere she was in control. Even if she had no real idea what was going on in Great Hording. Probably less now than she did at the start.

  After a while she stopped and reread what she had written. Confusing as it was, it seemed significant. The feeling that she was on the verge of something important was growing. The explosive series of leaks, Sergei’s near-fatal accident, the burgling of her flat, the disappearance of her phone, the appearance of Karlie in Great Hording, followed by that of Harry. How was it all connected?

  She tried his phone again. Unsurprisingly, he did not answer. Had it really been him? She had been certain before, but everything suddenly seemed in flux again. Perhaps she had imagined it. Perhaps she was going mad. Perhaps the strain of the last few weeks was taking its toll.

  Laura put her head in her hands, summoning the spirit of her indomitable grandmother, currently with the Fat Four on the high seas somewhere south of Australia. What would Mimi do? The answer came immediately.

  Eat, of course. No one could make sense of anything on an empty stomach.

  And she was starving, she realised. The fridge in her apartment held only a limp head of iceberg lettuce and a half-eaten packet of bacon. Mais voilà!, she seemed to hear Mimi say. What was she looking at if not a salade aux lardons?

  As the chopped-up bacon sizzled fragrantly in the pan, Laura whipped up Mimi’s vinaigrette. Salt, one part vinegar, one part water, two parts olive oil, pepper. Mix all of the ingredients in a bowl. The trick is salt first, then vinegar, then water, then oil, and pepper last of all. In that order, without fail! Then add what you like: old-fashioned grainy mustard, shallots, chives... There are as many vinaigrette recipes as there are women.

  As she ate, sitting at her open window overlooking the sparkling, night-lit city, Laura felt stronger. Now, finally, her thoughts could turn to the other magazine story she was supposed to be writing, the one Clemency actually wanted. The Ivy Awards were taking place at the end of the week, on Friday evening.

  And yet neither Caspar nor his people had been in touch. Like Harry, he had not returned her calls. As with Harry, there had been radio silence.

  She reached for her laptop. According to the Sidebar of Shame on Mail Online, Caspar was currently filming in Morocco. There were images of him in a desert tent surrounded by writhing belly dancers. Any one of whom looked like a better red-carpet companion than her.

  Laura took another sip of red wine. Two glasses had brought on a philosophical mood. Oh well. As Caspar had so generously pointed out, she lacked the grooming and gloss for a full-wattage celebrity evening. But there was no doubt this would mean trouble at work.

  And while she’d hung on to the Society job for as long as was humanly possible. Perhaps it was time to accept that the odds were stacked against her at the British Magazine Company. Clemency would definitely fire her now. She’d never get her editorship back. Time to let that dream go too.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was just as well, it turned out, that she had been stood down at the Ivys. Lady Mandy now suddenly brought the first night of the Great Hording summer pantomime forward. ‘She want performance before anyone else drop out,’ Lulu said gravely. ‘She on edge of knife. She start all rehearsal saying “overture and beginners” but there is no overture and not many beginners now everyone go Tuscany until scandal blow over.’

  Laura said nothing about any of this to Clemency. For her to continue in her job, the editor must continue to believe that the insider film awards story was still on track. But Laura had never been an especially effective liar, no means as accomplished as her office superior. Clemency might well have guessed the truth had it not been for one thing.

  Karlie had left. Suddenly, and with no explanation.

  Laura had dreaded encountering the self-satisfied secretary the Monday after spotting her in Great Hording. Overnight she had tried to convince herself that there was no evidence, only coincidence, to link Karlie to Harry. If Harry it had really been, anyway.

  But there was still Karlie’s snooping and phone-tapping to account for, which made sense if the secretary had been spying on her love life. And the fact she had disappeared rather seemed to confirm suspicions. Perhaps she had seen Laura drive by in Great Hording? And, as a result, wanted to avoid her.

  Laura had tried to consult Ellen about the mystery. But Ellen’s phone went unanswered and Laura’s calls to the foreign desk of The Sunday Times elicited only the information, from a harassed-sounding editor, that she was away. The window through which she had managed to slip in and see her was a rare one, Laura realised.

  At least Karlie’s absence infuriated Clemency, who reserved the right to disappoint people at a second’s notice but bitterly resented being let down herself. Her efforts to recruit a replacement were not going well. In just one morning, Human Resources sent three candidates, all of whom were crying in the loos by lunchtime. Clemency, engaged in an orgy of assistant-bullying, had no time to bully Laura as well.

  Laura felt far from cheerful, even so. Her Caspar piece was clearly not going to happen, her interview with Ellen was on the spike, and her only ‘live’ commission, the in-depth investigation of upmarket West London children’s shops, was both shallow and dull. She could barely bring herself to think of what her derring-do father would have made of them.

  This morning’s daring assignment had been Wibble Wobble, an emporium owned by a pair of former supermodels. It
sold wind-up vintage televisions, children’swear with a Scandi vibe and calfskin docking ports for baby’s iPad. Their bespoke euro-pop remix of the Sesame Street theme tune echoed in Laura’s ears as she walked back towards the Tube. Midway along a row of shops was a branch of Save the Children – and something gold and glittering was in the window.

  Laura paused and gasped. The suit! Lulu’s liquid gold two-piece was in the window, rising like a glittering tree from a ground cover of second-hand Hermès bags. But of course there was no need to buy it any more.

  All the same, looking at the shining outfit in all its flashy exuberance, Laura felt a stir of regret. It would have been fun to wear it.

  She was walking away when her phone went.

  Harry? With a rational explanation as to what he had been up to?

  ‘Hey!’ drawled the other end, un-Harryishly.

  ‘Caspar? Where are you?’

  ‘At Claridge’sh!’

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘I’ve jusht flown in! Come on down!’

  *

  Crossing the gleaming marble chequerboard lobby of Claridge’s, Laura cursed the ease with which she had been persuaded to come. The grandeur made her feel self-conscious. Everything was so shiny and smart. Perhaps Caspar was right – she was rough around the edges. The memory of what he had said angered her afresh. Where was he, anyway? She looked about, but none of the smooth types in the silky chairs in the pillared and chandeliered lounge fitted the handsome, excitable, bulge-eyed template of her most infuriating friend. Perhaps he had forgotten already that she was coming. Or had gone somewhere else, with someone more interesting.

  ‘Madam?’ A young woman in a smart, dark suit was at her elbow. Her voice was low with suppressed excitement. ‘Mr Honeyman is in his suite. He asks if you would go up.’

  The lift was like a small, ornate room, manned by a smiling attendant. She could get used to this, Laura thought. No wonder people lived in this hotel for weeks.

  Caspar’s suite had shining double doors and its own small gold doorbell. Seconds after she pressed it, the door was opened by a morning-suited butler. ‘Haddock!’ Laura exclaimed, assuming this was Caspar’s legendary gentleman’s gentleman.

  The smoothly combed dark head inclined. ‘Certainly, madam. We serve it in several ways: kedgeree, omelette Arnold Bennett...’

  ‘Haddock’sh at home in Big Shur!’ burst in an excitable voice from behind. ‘Thish one comesh free with the shweet!’

  Caspar sprawled on a chaise-longue in a sitting room with Marie Antoinette furniture. The coffee table before him was crowded with empty glasses. His arms were so dark with tattoos he looked as if he had lace sleeves on. He had thick gold hoops in his ear and a T-shirt that said ‘HOAX’ in Scrabble letters.

  And what had happened to his hair?

  ‘You’ve got a man-bun.’ Laura tried to keep the horror out of her voice.

  ‘Like it?’ He touched it self-consciously.

  Laura hesitated. She hated man-buns. They were greasy, slobby and suited no one. And with shaved sideburns, as Caspar had, they looked especially dim.

  She decided to sidestep the issue of personal preference. ‘Did James Bond have a man-bun? Tattoos?’

  ‘I’m trying to drag him into the twenty-firsht shentury,’ Caspar responded.

  Laura’s mouth dropped open. ‘He’s going to have them in the film?’

  The man-bun nodded. ‘I’m trying to convinsh the producersh.’

  ‘Are they taking much convincing?’

  ‘It’sh shafe to shay that our vishionsh aren’t aligned at thish time,’ Caspar slurred, before emitting a resounding belch.

  Laura escaped to the bathroom – one of the bathrooms, as it turned out. It was vast, marbled and heaped with white towels, none of which seemed to have been used yet. There were two basins, one labelled ‘FACE’ and the other ‘TEETH’. The shelf above the ‘FACE’ one contained a line of jars, presumably arranged by the butler, including caviar skin luxe cream and protein glaze. The ‘TEETH’ shelf hosted an extensive ‘whitening system’. Laura thought of the one small bottle of baby oil which, in the Mimi tradition, served her as moisturiser, body lotion and conditioner. Caspar must have needed another entire plane just for his beauty products.

  She emerged to find Caspar busy with the butler. ‘Five shotsh of white tequila,’ he was instructing.

  ‘In the same glass, sir?’

  ‘Yessh!’

  Would the man-bun-sporting, tattooed, tequila-drinking Bond catch on? Laura wondered. She doubted it.

  She lowered herself into an overstuffed armchair and looked about the ornate sitting room. There were so many patterns she felt a migraine coming on and the carpet was so thick her boots sank up to the ankles.

  Caspar took the five-shot tequila off the silver tray now being offered him. ‘Another!’

  At least Caspar had remembered his duties as a host. Laura was desperate for a drink now. But when the second tequila arrived Caspar tossed it back as he had the first.

  She felt disgusted and indignant. Why had she bothered to come? What was she doing, sitting watching a drunk, self-indulgent actor drink and self-indulge? What had happened to Caspar? Alcohol and fame had turned him into a monster; even more of a monster.

  ‘I’m the biggesht shtar alive!’ Caspar toasted himself delightedly with his twentieth shot of tequila. ‘You know, it’sh great to shee you. Laura. The more famoush I get the more important it ish to me that I hang out with old friendsh. Normalshy, you know?’

  Laura’s eyes dropped to the ‘HOAX’ T-shirt. Irony? Double bluff?

  ‘I went to Taylor Shwift’sh birthday party on Rhode Island. Shtayed with Rushell Crowe. He hash hish own pub, did you know?’

  Laura nodded. Carinthia had run a feature in Society on the back of it; ‘Personal Gin Palaces of the Rich and Famous’.

  ‘Another!’ Caspar roared at the butler.

  ‘You’re drinking an awful lot,’ Laura remarked.

  ‘It’sh the method,’ Caspar replied. His eyelids were drooping now and his chin sinking into his chest.

  ‘What method?’

  ‘You know, acting. You inhabit the shoul of the charactersh you play.’

  Laura hesitated. ‘You mean... you’re drinking a lot so you can get inside the soul of James Bond? Does he even have one?’

  ‘It’s a profound shike... shike... pshychological dishlocation,’ Caspar managed, after huge effort. ‘I’m shagging loadsh of girlsh as well. I’m a martyr to my craft. That’s why they’ve gotta give me the Ivy for Besht Actor.’

  And here was the cue she needed. She got up hurriedly. ‘Well, good luck with that.’

  A drunken nod. ‘Thanksh.’

  ‘Who are you taking with you, just out of interest?’ It would be useful to know, as Clemency was sure to ask.

  Caspar heaved himself up on an elbow and gave her a puzzled, unfocused stare. ‘Whaddyamean? I’m taking you, of coursh.’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Lulu, it’s going to be fine,’ Laura distractedly assured her friend. So many phones were ringing in the Society office it sounded like the aviary at London Zoo. There was no one to answer them. Almost all the staff members had resigned, unable to bear the despotic Clemency another second. Laura was one of the few left. It had been an unexpected lifeline; she was needed now and unlikely to be sacked. Unless Clemency herself got sacked, but that might also be an opportunity.

  ‘Is not fine!’ wailed the other end. ‘You miss show!’

  Clemency’s own phone now joined the shrilling fray. It had been some days since the last temp had slammed out of the office and Laura had added editor’s secretary to the list of jobs she now tried single-handedly to fill.

  ‘Look,’ she promised hastily. ‘I’ll come to Great Hording the minute the Ivys are finished. I’ve worked out the timings.’ She had, and to the split second, desperate to fulfil her obligations to both the friends who needed her. Lulu was obviously more deserving than
Caspar, but as ever the actor had talked her round. On condition that she could go the moment the award had been handed over. No after-party, no nothing. ‘I should be there in time for the grand finale,’ she assured Lulu. ‘Break a leg,’ she added, as the office phones, which had temporarily stopped, now started up again.

  ‘Wha...?!’

  ‘A figure of speech. Actors say it to each other for good luck.’

  ‘Is all bad luck though,’ Lulu said gloomily.

  Laura replaced the phone just as Clemency looked up from her desk and gave her an especially venomous glare.

  Defensive, Laura knew. She now had quite a different take on her old enemy. The mass exodus of her staff, for all Clemency brazened it out, had made her vulnerable. There hadn’t been a features meeting for days, and Laura knew, from the calls she was answering from Honor, that Christopher was fretting about the next Society cover. At the moment it was Lady Toots Winchester, who loved champagne-showers, had double-jointed thumbs and designed her own range of tweed bikinis. No wonder Christopher was worried.

  ‘He thinks the magazine’s out of step with the times,’ Honor confided to Laura. ‘What with the election and everything. He’s worried Society’s going to become irrelevant.’

  He had a point, Laura felt. The nation went to the polls the next week and the Conservative government seemed in disarray. Jolyon Jackson had only been the first; many leading MPs connected to him – some fellow cabinet ministers – had suffered setbacks after private information about them had emerged.

  Not just politicians, either. During the last few days the internet had been awash with unflattering stories about people eminent in every imaginable profession. It was all very puzzling and, for once, didn’t seem to have come from Great Hording. In Kearn’s opinion at least. ‘It’s too general,’ he had said last time they spoke. ‘The leaks from here have been specific to village residents. But this new stuff is about, well, everyone.’

  ‘Except journalists,’ Laura pointed out. ‘And that is very Great Hording, because no journalists live there. They’re not allowed.’