2cool2btrue (17 page)

I
t’s black tie, this do at Sir James Huntsman’s, as if it wasn’t a pain in the arse enough already. Usually Lauren ties my bow tie for me after I’ve cursed and sworn for a while but this time I don’t want to even ask her. She’s cooking herself an omelette in the kitchen and I leave her to it.

The final attempt looks like I’ve at least made an effort although the breeze from a butterfly wing in South America will probably cause it to unfurl again.

“Bye, then,” I tell her. “I won’t be back too late.”

“Okay,” she says without looking round, her fork suspended in midair and her legs crossed as she sits at a stool by the breakfast bar, reading a magazine while she eats. That I’m going to this thing with Nora hasn’t helped relations between us. Added to which is the fact that instead of getting out of the whole 2cool mess, I seem to be wading in even deeper.

Even though it’s warm outside I’m wearing a mac so that I don’t look too conspicuous. I’m five minutes early at the pub and I order a whisky for my nerves. Then another. The jukebox comes on and a bloke begins to sing in a thin, tremulous voice:

Nora, funnily enough, is late.

“Sorry,” she says, spotting me at the bar. “We had a bit of a crisis at work. Hey, you look great.”

“Thanks, so do you.”

She’s wearing a black lacy dress, sort of Edwardian, with some heavy costume jewellery and dark red lipstick.

“We’re running a little news piece on your survey about men spending more on clothes than women, you’ll be glad to hear. Editor loves it.”

“Great,” I say. I suppose 2cool might as well carry on generating news—perhaps even positive stuff—until it is finally closed down for good. I’ve decided to say nothing to Nora about the Fraud Squad visit.

“I think it’s a crap story, so obviously my editor
loves
2cool, which is good for you, and for me, I suppose.”

“I suppose so.”

“Now, tactics for tonight. Let’s start with a large G and T.”

I call the barman over and give her order plus another whisky for myself.

“So what are the tactics, beyond a large gin and tonic?” I ask.

“Well, I say we mingle, okay? We’ve been invited by a friend of mine called Anna. She’ll be there so we’ll say hello to her and she’ll introduce us to Huntsman’s children and, hopefully, some other friends of Piers, and we’ll chat ’em up and see what we can find out.”

“Sounds simple enough. So who’s this Huntsman geezer, then? His name’s familiar.”

“He’s a financier. Mainly property but also a bit in oil and airlines. Came to Britain as a kid from Poland or somewhere. You know the story—no money, name like a bad hand at Scrabble. Got a job in the post room of a bank or something, changed his original name to Huntsman and built it up from there.”

“I see.”

She clinks her glass against mine and then starts off again. “Incidentally I’ve found out a little bit more about Piers’s past business activities.”

“Dodgy?”

“A bit.”

“Oh, God, like what?”

“Well. There was one where, let me remember this right, oh yes, he’d employ out-of-work actors to come round and cook dinner for you and then stay and eat it with you and make witty conversation. An instant dining companion. You could even order two or three of them and have your own dinner party if you had the money.”

“And no friends. That sounds quite aboveboard.”

“Well, apparently the most popular part of the service was where a girl came round, cooked you a delicious dinner with wine, made charming conversation—and then had sex with you.”

“Very nice.”

“The vice squad put a stop to that one.”

“Spoilsports.”

Sir James Huntsman welcomes us with bored, superficial charm as we move along a sort of receiving line.

“Hello, good evening. How nice of you to come,” he drawls. White haired and florid but tall and slim, he has no trace of a Polish accent. I’m about to thank him for inviting me and explain that I’m a friend of his children’s friend Anna, when he turns to the person behind me and says, “Hello, good evening. How nice of you to come.”

“Hello, Pamela Huntsman. Lovely to meet you,” says Lady Huntsman. She is a tall, thin woman with great cheekbones. She reminds me of someone called Diana at my agency who has cornered the mature women’s market and does a brisk trade in smart, older travellers and elegant grandmothers. The only difference is that Lady Huntsman’s hair seems to be back-combed to within an inch of its life, so she looks like she’s just been electrocuted. “We’re relying on you young ones to get the party going,” she says.

“Oh, Charlie’ll get it swinging, he’s known for it,” says Nora, giving her a huge wink. I’m so fazed by this comment that I just stare at Lady Huntsman.

“Super,” she says, and turns to the next person.

“What the hell did you say that for?” I ask her when we’ve moved away from Lady H sufficiently.

“So she’ll remember you.”

“She certainly will. Right, where’s your friend, then?”

“Can’t see her.”

“What does she look like?”

“Sort of short with dark hair.”

“Okay, keep an eye out for her. Do you want a drink?”

“Gasping. Oh, look here’s a tray and some nibbles. Grab ’em.”

Knowing Nora’s relationship with waiters and trays I hold her back for a moment.

“Now, what do you want?” I ask her.

“Champagne, please,” she says, looking surprised.

Carefully I pick up a glass of champagne and hand it to her. Before I can stop her she reaches for a smoked salmon thing. My heart stands still for a moment but she seems to manage to pick it up without sending the rest flying.

I take a glass of bubbly too and ask her, “How do we introduce the subject of Piers, and what if someone recognises me or knows your name? And why would they tell us, anyway?”

She tuts. “Well, they’re not going to say, ‘Actually, since you ask, he’s gone to Acapulco’ or ‘Oh, of course, he’s hiding in my attic’ are they?”

“No, so what are they going to say?”

She rolls her eyes. Why do I always feel like a dumbo with Nora even though I’m usually the one making sense?

“I need another one of these to think.”

She drains her glass and reaches over to another tray. I close my eyes ready for the inevitable but when I look back she is holding a full glass and looking thoughtful.

“The point is, Charlie, that people like to gossip, like to show off their knowledge. You find it all the time as a journalist. You think ‘Why would anyone want to tell me that?’ But they do. We’ll just chat and pick up some clues, get to know something more. As I say, you’d be amazed how much people are willing to gossip even when they know they shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

“Knowledge is power and people like to feel powerful,” she says, looking up at me with wide eyes. “They love reading something in the papers the next day and knowing that they contributed to it, that they’re part of the story.”

“Mmm, I suppose so.”

She looks around us and then says, “Did you know that the cocktail party was invented in 1924 by Alec Waugh, brother of Evelyn?”

“No. Was it?”

“One of the great inventions.”

“Up there with the steam engine and television.”

“Far more useful, though. Thought you could work it into the conversation somewhere. Break the ice a bit.”

She takes another large mouthful of champagne. I’ve hardly touched my glass.

“Do you always drink this much?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” she explains.

“Now you’re making
me
nervous.”

“Don’t be! Big boy like you, look at the talent around here. You’re bound to score.”

“Ha, ha! I’m not single, you know that,” I say pointedly.

“I know, that’s what makes you extra attractive—to these It-girls I mean. Anyway, let’s split up and get snooping.”

“Yes, Velma.
Scooby Doo,
you know—”

“Yeah, I get it. Now, let’s mingle, mingle.”

I push my way gently through the crowds. There are some faces I half-recognise: politicians, business people, a bloke who pops up on the teatime news to talk about whether interest rates will go up or down. There is even a TV presenter who does
Newsnight
sometimes, discussing something with a serious-looking young guy, but also looking around to see who else he should be talking to.

Near the stairs I pass an immaculately dressed man who is talking through pursed lips to a rather harassed-looking woman.

“Now darling, remember what we’re going to say?” he hisses. “That’s right. ‘Thanks but I think I’ve had enough.’ Yes? ‘Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough.’ Got it?”

“Thanks but I think I’ve had enough.
Thanks
but I think I’ve had enough,” says the woman, concentrating hard. “Thanks but I
think
I’ve had enough.” She takes a deep breath. “Yes, don’t worry darling.”

At that moment a waiter bearing a tray passes them and she grabs two glasses of champagne from him as though her life depends on it and knocks them back, one after another. The man rolls his eyes.

Other people are double-kissing each other and making unfunny jokes or talking money in loud, braying voices. Most of the women look like they’ve been very carefully put together from kits, every piece painstakingly assembled and polished up before being sent out. I try to work out who is my mum’s age. I’m just thinking this when I bump into my dad. Unlike everyone else he is not in black tie. Instead he’s wearing a black Nehru jacket, and Mari, or whatever the hell her name was, is on his arm.

“Charlie,” he says, looking very surprised, almost shocked. “What are you doing here? You don’t know James, do you?”

“No, I’m with a friend. How do you know him?”

“Well, why shouldn’t I? I mean, some of his companies are clients of ours.” He smiles suddenly and pats my shoulder. “Hey, looking good. You remember Mari, don’t you?”

“Yes, nice to meet you again,” I say, trying to eradicate thoughts of my mum who is probably at home watching
The Bill.

“So, where is Lauren?” He waves at someone and double-kisses a gorgeous blonde woman, asking her “How you doing?” as she moves past us.

“Catch you later,” she purrs, squeezing his arm, so obviously an ex-fuck. Mari looks on benignly—or ignorantly.

“So, yeah, where’s Lauren?” says my dad, coming back to me.

“She’s at home.” At least I hope she is, not out with PBC again. Suddenly I feel a bit lonely without her by my side. You never have to worry about not having someone to talk to at a party with Lauren. People sort of gravitate towards her and she’s always got something to say.

“Everything all right between you two?”

“Not too good. I’m just here with a work friend though.”

“From 2cool?” he says, sounding slightly concerned.

“Not exactly. Just someone who’s helping me.”

“That journalist?” How did he know?

“Well, yeah.”

He looks anxious again, nervous even.

“Charlie, just be careful. She’s a journalist. She’s got loyalty to no one but herself. This thing is pretty big by all accounts—there’s been a lot of money invested in it. People really wanted it to work, for it to make investing in the consumer side of the net sexy and fun again. Have you had a chance to look at the accounts yet?”

“What accounts? It’s just chaos. Bills, final demands—I can’t even find where they’ve filed all the bank statements.” I decide not to worry him about the police visit now. Anyway, I’m not sure that there is anything about that visit to worry about: they seemed quite happy with it all.

“Fucking hell.” He thinks for a moment. “Well, I think you should just resign. Hand in your notice tomorrow. Get the fuck out of there.”

“Mmm,” I tell him thoughtfully.

“Charlie, did you hear what I said?”

Suddenly I’m transported back to being a teenager with the old man having a go at me again.

“Yeah, I did, Dad, but the thing is…the thing is, it’s like when I was a kid, well fifteen, sixteen or something. What were you doing then?”

He looks, mystified, irritated. “How do mean?”

“You were working all hours with the other two in a tiny attic in Brewer Street across the landing from a girl who charged twenty quid a go. Remember? We had no money. You had to go to Grandpa for a loan. No, I know you did, I heard you on the phone to him. And remember what Mum said, remember what your ex-boss told you? Everyone said you’d fail but you stuck at it, even when it seemed hopeless.”

“This is different,” says Dad, frowning sadly. “Charlie, you’ve got to get out of this. Look, get yourself a solicitor and charge it to the company; you’re quite entitled to under the law.”