2cool2btrue (19 page)

“Yeah, she bloody did. Fuck! How embarrassing, she just leapt on me. Hang on, let me do my shirt up.”

“It was the badgers thing, I think.”

“What have they got to do with anything?”

“Her badger meetings. It’s well known: they just get together at country houses, all these so-called badger enthusiasts, and just, you know, get off with each other. It’s like a code for upper-class swingers: ‘Are you interested in badger conservation?’ It means, are you up for it? I was going to write a piece about it but—”

“All right, I get the picture.” I finish tucking in my shirt. “I can’t believe you knew she was going to do that.”

“I certainly had an inkling. Didn’t you see her eyes light up when I mentioned you and badgers? Anyway, more importantly, did she mention Piers?”

“No, funnily enough she didn’t, she had her mouth full, and I’m afraid I didn’t manage to broach the subject as I was trying to force her lips off my di—off my, er, lips.”

“Shame.”

“Oh, shit, my mobile, where is it?”

“Who are you going to ring?”

“Never mind.” Why shouldn’t she know? “I’m just going to call my girlfriend, Lauren.”

“Is it not in your jacket?” asks Nora, blandly.

“No, it must have fallen out in the struggle.”

“It’ll be in there then.”

“Well done. Good detective work.”

“Just nip in and get it.”

“I can’t, not with her in there.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” sighs Nora, and she sets off along the corridor to Lady Huntsman’s bedroom. I’m just about to call her back when I realise that in fact it will bloody well serve her right. I see her open the door warily and put her head round it.

“Oh, Alex, hi,” she says, and then I hear her gasp, “Oh, is that you Lady Huntsman? I didn’t recognise you.” She turns her head to one side. “Sorry, don’t mind me, I’m just looking for a mobile phone, ah, here it is, sorry, see you later. Oh, lovely party, by the way.” She emerges again, frowning as she comes towards me. “That’s a sight that’ll stay with me for a while. God, she’s supple for a woman of her age, though. I don’t think I could manage that. She must do a lot of yoga. Anyway, here’s your phone. It’s a bit wet I’m afraid.”

“Thanks.”

She takes off her glasses and begins to polish them on her lacy black dress. Once again she looks like no one else at the party but she does have a certain style. Then she puts her glasses back on again and pushes her diamanté hairslide around a bit. She looks up at me with her big, dark, inscrutable eyes.

“Well, I’ll leave you to make your phone call,” she says.

“Okay.”

“I’ll keep mingling and maybe see you later.”

“Yes, sure,” I say. “I’ll go outside and ring from there.”

I
leave Nora to carry on mingling and step onto the terrace which overlooks a bigger garden than anyone in London has the right to own. I look up at the house ablaze with light and then call Lauren. The phone rings a couple of times and then the answer machine clicks in. I knew it! I fucking knew it! She’s out with Peter.

Then the phone is picked up clumsily. “Hello?” says a sleepy voice.

“Lauren? Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh, hi babe. Where are you? What time is it?”

“It’s…” I check my watch in the light from the house. It’s 11:45
P.M
. “Oh, sorry, it’s nearly midnight.”

“Oh, Charlieeee. What’s the matter? Are you all right? Why are you ringing so late? I’ve got to get up early tomorrow for a casting in Docklands.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh, right. When will you be home?”

“Very soon. Night, hon.”

“Night.” She puts the phone down.

“You in trouble with the missus?”

I spin round but can’t see anyone in the gloom. “Hello?”

“You shouldn’t have fucked my mother then, should you?”

“Hello? Who’s that?”

The smell of pot floats through the summer air. Finally a face emerges from the darkness of the shrubbery. A girl in her twenties, long dark hair. A face that is still girlish. Pale skin, pretty but for a sad, sulky mouth. She takes another drag on her joint.

“Feel better now you’ve rung your wife?” she asks knowingly.

“I haven’t fucked your mother,” I tell her, more intrigued than cross.

“Really? Apparently she was last seen dragging you upstairs.”

“You’re Lady Huntsman’s daughter.”

“Well done.” She waits for a moment and extends a hand. “Anastasia.” We shake.

“Charlie, Charlie Barrett.”

She looks at me for a moment. “I know you, don’t I?”

“No.”

“I do.”

“Perhaps from the website, 2cool—”

“2btrue, of course.” She takes a drag and looks at me again. “So you didn’t do it with my mother, then?”

“No, I…we didn’t in the end.”

“Oh, I see. Was that your
boyfriend
you were ringing just now?”

“No, it was my girlfriend. I just—”

“Managed to fight my mother off. Gosh, you’re now a member of a very exclusive club: the ones who’ve actually gotten away from her.”

She offers me her joint. I’m about to decline but instead I reach and take it from her. I have a drag and hold it before handing the joint back.

“How do you know my parents?” she asks.

“I, er, I’m here with a girl called Nora. Know her? American girl, she’s a journalist. Writes for the
Post.”

Anastasia shakes her head without thinking. “I haven’t been inside much. Can’t stomach it.”

“Sure. I can understand that.”

She takes another drag. “It’s quite fun, your website—I look at it quite a bit. Quite funky. Shame, though, apparently it’s all going tits up, isn’t it? Still, that’s Piers for you.”

“You know him?” I feel a surge of adrenaline through my tired, aching body.

“Piers? Yes.”

“How?”

I curse myself for appearing too blunt, too interested. This is what I came to this stupid, awful party for, but I get the feeling I’m going to have to reel this one in carefully. I can tell, though, from the way she’s looking me up and down that there is something going on here. I give her the same frowny, “come to bed” look as in the picture that ended up in the first
Post
article. I probably look like a tit but I might as well try to charm this sultry, cynical girl.

“I’ve known him for years,” she says. She flicks ash off the remainder of her joint and takes another drag at it. “He’s my dealer for one thing.”

“Really? Piers?”

“Oh, Piers can get you anything. Real hustler. You should know—he was selling this shit through your site.”

“What, drugs? On 2cool?”

“Derr! Didn’t you notice? Go to ‘Extra Curricula,’ click on ‘What’s in the cupboard?’ You must know what that means? No?” She tuts. “So innocent. Then you just choose ‘Charlie Says,’ ‘Pot Noodle,’ ‘Good Enough to ’E’at?,’ ‘Grass Cutters.’” She laughs. “I can’t believe you’ve never looked.”

“I can’t keep track of all the things that go on the site.”

“So what’s happening to it? They say it’s falling apart.”

“A few financial difficulties. That’s why I’m looking for Piers.”

She glances around for a moment. “Well, he doesn’t seem to be here,” she says in an ultrapatronising tone.

“Thanks for looking.” I flash her a big smile to keep her onside.

“Don’t mention it.”

“It would be really helpful if you could let me know if you hear anything. Seriously.”

She thinks about it, finishes her joint and throws it into the bushes. “’Kay,” she says in a strangled, post-drag voice. “I think my dad would quite like to speak to him too. Piers is the one who persuaded him to invest in 2cool.”

“Well, if we find him, we’ll call your dad, I promise. It’s the least I can do.”

“For fucking his wife.”

“I told you—”

“Oh, I’m kidding.”

I put my hands in my pockets and walk around thoughtfully. “So what else has Piers invested in?”

“Oh, let me see.” She looks up at the few stars we can see above the London light pollution. “A girl band. Oh, haven’t we all? These were two Croatian models. Piers chatted them up in a bar. They couldn’t speak English let alone sing, but Piers paid a couple of backing vocalists to take care of that little technicality, had them photographed and even got them a recording ‘contract.’” She draws lazy, stoned, air-quotes. “Then they went home to some remote village. He thought it would be funny if he got them into the charts. He loved the idea that they would be stars in this country and not even know it. It nearly worked, I think.”

“Very virtual.”

“Then there were Yukisakis or whatever they’re called.”

“What?”

“These little creatures. According to Piers they were a cross between Tamagotchi and Hello Kitty. You know, cute little things with computers in them. He thought they’d be huge, bought thousands and thousands of them from a factory in China—you know, the kind where they employ five-year-olds for eighteen hours a day making sports gear, the kind my father invests in—and he planned to sell them on street corners, cutting out the middle man, a kind of guerrilla marketing thing. Make it an underground operation. Really hip accessory. Kind of thing that all your mates have, but too cool to be sold in any high street shop.”

“Don’t remember them. What happened?”

“Apparently the head came off really easily and there was this sharp spike which also gave off an electric shock.”

“Nice.”

“Not really. So obviously he couldn’t sell many in this country. Last thing we heard the Hong Kong Triad gangs were using them to poke their enemies’ eyes out with, oh, and I think some African dictator had bought a job lot.”

“So, not all bad news then.”

She laughs. “Depends how you look at it. Piers always looks on the bright side.”

“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?” There is a pause as we both look up at the stars. Then I say, “I would like to find him you know.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“I won’t land you in it.”

“I don’t care if you do. He won’t hold it against me—I’m one of his best customers.” She mimes a rolling action with the tips of her fingers.

“Can I ring you about it?”

“I’ll ring you.”

I go to find Nora. She is talking to a couple of people and seems ready to leave when I suggest it. We find a taxi in Kensington High Street and although Notting Hill isn’t strictly on the way we decide to drop her off first. Once inside I tell her what Anastasia Huntsman has told me.

“Great,” she says.

“It’s not great, it’s terrible. Piers is a total shyster.”

“At least we know something more about his business background. This girl, Huntsman’s daughter, is bound to hear from him at some point. Give her a call tomorrow and have another chat.”

“She wouldn’t give me her number, but she’s got mine and said she’d call me when she heard from him,” I say, wondering what it must be like to be as angry and bored all the time as Anastasia.

“Okay, if you haven’t heard by the end of the day tell me and I’ll get her number for you.”

We sit in silence for a moment and then I say, “I bumped into my dad and he basically just said get out of it.”

“The advertising man, was he there?”

“How did you know my dad was in advertising?”

“You mentioned it the other night,” she says quickly. “Anyway, he says get out, does he? He’s probably right, but you might as well follow up this Piers thing and then leave it. One more day can’t do any harm can it?”

I think about it. The harm it could do is to get me sent to prison or beaten to a pulp, but something, some stupid, headstrong, irresponsible part of me agrees with her. Most of all, I just want to prove to my dad that I can do what he did. Even if it doesn’t work, I want to show I didn’t walk away without trying.

We set off up Kensington Church Street past the antique shops full of the kind of furniture we’ve just been walking past and sitting on and getting sexually assaulted amongst. After a few minutes I ask, “Did you see your friend Anna in the end?”

“Anna? Er, no, I don’t think she made it.”

“Probably because she doesn’t exist.”

“Yes, she does,” says Nora, halfheartedly.

“No, she doesn’t. You just made her up. We basically just crashed that party, didn’t we?”

“And very successfully,” she says, turning to me and raising one eyebrow elegantly.

We reach Nora’s and I get out to see her to the door. We do the key thing again. She rabbits on about what she’s got to write tomorrow while she searches around what tonight is only a tiny dress handbag but seems to be a bottomless pit. Then she produces the key and holds it up.

“Knew it was in here somewhere,” she laughs breathily. She’s like a little girl with her big, dark eyes and her cheeky grin. I suddenly wonder whether she has anyone to protect her, to put his arms round her, to listen to her when she’s got herself into trouble at work—again.

I don’t think she has.

This girl is trouble, I remind myself. She’s lied to me, she’s already got me into various horribly embarrassing situations, she’s made the 2cool problem a thousand times worse, she seems to have only a light grip on reality and she is either unaware of or unconcerned about what problems she causes other people. But somehow I find myself wanting to get closer to her.

Looking up at me, she licks her lips, almost subconsciously. We’re standing inches away from each other.

“Night then,” I tell her.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” she says.

I slip into bed with Lauren. She groans slightly in her sleep, turns and backs into me. I put my arms around her sleeping body and gently drift off.

Although there seems very little point in going to the office the next day, I’m there by 10
A.M
. Scarlett comes in an hour later and Zac drifts in at lunchtime.

“I got you a carrot, apple and ginger to help you detox,” she says. “After last night.”

“Thanks, doll,” I say, and tell her about the party, minus the Lady H episode. I came so close to kissing Nora last night and I still don’t really know why. As I finish talking about the party, the phone rings with someone about payment again. I’m polite but firm. They’ll have to wait.

“Fuck,” says Scarlett over her alfalfa sprout roll.

“Let me just finish this email and I’ll be right over,” says Zac.

“In your dreams, net nerd.”

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Have you seen the
Standard
today?”

“Oh, God, now what?”

“It’s about your friend Nora.”

I’m at Scarlett’s desk in a moment. She points to a piece in the “Londoner’s Diary.” It’s a picture of Nora next to one of Piers.