Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (24 page)

  'Absolutely not. I wish you wouldn't gang up with Alan.'

  Rachel runs a hand over her brow. 'Very well then, do you think you can talk some sense into them all?'

  I call Mary Anne on her mobile and a few minutes later she descends in the lift to the lobby. As always she is dressed in a voluminous trouser suit, this one cyclamen pink. A small gold cross plays about her neck and her hair hangs lankly. She is harassed, but greets me with outstretched arms.

  'Sugar, what can I say? When Dannie's in one of her moods, there's nothing I can do. She's refusing to budge from her suite and, between you and me, we had a bit of a nasty write-up in the
New York Times
today, so things are looking pretty ugly upstairs.'

  Greedy George was right in his prediction. I have bitten off more than I can chew with Dannie, but I know that if I cave in to this madness now, we will forever be her slaves.

  'If she won't leave her suite, we'll go to her.'

  Mary Anne's lip wobbles. 'Impossible! She hardly lets anyone into her suite. She's still in her robe, and Rocky hasn't done her hair yet.'

  I give her fleshy arm a little squeeze.

  'Call her now and say I want to speak with her.'

  She hesitates, staring at the mobile as if it's the trigger for a nuclear holocaust.

  'Can't we do a meeting Thursday instead? She's tied up tomorrow, but...'

  I shake my head. 'I can't do Thursday, Mary Anne. I have wall-to-wall meetings all day.'

  Rachel flashes her blue eyes at me with the word WARNING emblazoned on them. I watch as Mary Anne, a film of perspiration on her top lip, makes the call. With a trembling hand she passes me the mobile.

  'I'm afraid it's out of the question that we meet today.' Dannie's tone is surly.

  'That's absolutely fine, Dannie. As you can't rearrange until Thursday and I'm busy all day, we'll wait till you're next over.'

  There's a pause. 'But we urgently need to discuss the product launch at Conran. You'll have to change your meetings.'

  'Sorry, Dannie, no can do. It's been difficult enough setting them up as it is.'

  'You consider your schedule more important than mine?'

  'Not at all, but like you I too have commitments.'

  'But I'm not even dressed.'

  'You're not leaving your room so does it really matter?'

  Mary Anne is gawping at me with large, fear crazed eyes. I return the mobile to her.

  'Oh my Gad. What did she say?'

  'To come on up.'

  Dannie greets us in a jade silk kimono and with her hair swept up in a towel. She is wearing big Chanel shades and there is a crimson sheen to her lips. Balancing a tortoiseshell cigarette holder between jewel-encrusted fingers, she ushers us in to her two room suite. The walls are salmon pink and the large windows, draped in crimson tartan, open out onto views of Hyde Park. On the walls are elegant framed pastel prints and vases of fresh flowers have been placed on occasional tables and on the dark mahogany desk. There are alcoves on either side of the window from which two white, stone figures gaze wistfully at the floral carpet. Beyond the salon, a door hints at the bedroom beyond, but all I can see is the corner of a gilt mirror and a soft green and rose patterned rug.

  Dannie slams the window shut and shivers.

  'It's awfully cramped in here. Mary Anne failed to book my normal rooms.'

  Rachel gives a cheery smile. 'Oh, it'll be fine for our meeting.'

  'That's the least of my concerns,' she snaps.

  I ignore the sullen demeanour and sit with a business-like air on one of the crimson sofas. In front of me is a long mahogany coffee table on which are piled various glossy publications and a clutter of cups. Dannie follows my gaze and glares at her assistant.

  'Get those cups cleared and order coffee and almonds.'

  Mary Anne obediently scuttles over to the internal phone while Dannie collapses onto a comfy armchair and studies me for a few seconds, a thin smile playing on her lips. 'Do you play chess?'

  'Not unless I have to.'

  'You like card games?'

  'They bore me to tears.'

  She draws deeply on her cigarette. 'Russian roulette, perhaps?'

  'Only on Fridays.'

  Dannie throws her head back and laughs. 'What do you make of this?'

  She plucks a newspaper clipping off the armrest of her chair and flings it towards me. I catch it mid-air, noting that it's the
New York Times
piece that Mary Anne forewarned me of. There's a photo of Dannie in a svelte black suit, her legs like long, thin liquorice sticks in dark tights, resting on the shiny desk in front of her. On the far wall is a portrait of Dannie and George Bush smiling together. The article headline reads: THE DEVIL WEARS CHANEL? I read on. It's a feisty feature, on the surface admiring of Dannie's business and charitable achievements, but underneath damning about her diva persona, lavish lifestyle, acrimonious divorce from a wellknown senator some years ago and the terse treatment of her entourage.

  There's a knock at the door and room service arrives. Mary Anne clears the table and pours everyone coffee. I notice she has ordered a huge plate of biscuits. A bowl of salted almonds have been placed in front of Dannie.

  I hand the newspaper cutting back to her.

  'This Sarah Harper certainly doesn't hold back.'

  'She's a bitch. A pathetic, sniping little reporter devoured by envy and greed. They're all the same.'

  I feel myself frown. 'Would you say that about Frankie Symons?'

  'Of course not, dear. What she wrote about me in
The Telegraph
was the stuff of dreams. But she's a one-off. The rest are a pack of grubby rats out to ruin lives.'

  Rachel chokes on the coffee that Mary Anne has offered her. 'Steady on, Dannie! Most of my friends are in the media.'

  She gives her a crisp smile. 'I'm sure you avoid the savages, Rachel.'

  Mary Anne chomps nervously on her biscuit and gets out a stack of files. I see her reach for another chocolate morsel which she quickly devours before clearing her throat. Absent-mindedly, she brushes biscuit crumbs from her lips which settle on her notepad. She waves her ballpoint in the air.

  'OK everyone, let's get down to work. Now…'

  Dannie glowers at her. 'Stop!'

  She removes her glasses for a second and peers into Mary Anne's face. 'Haven't I told you to wax your moustache?'

  Rachel's eyes pop out. I study my file intently.

  'I've been too busy, Dannie.' Mary Anne is crimson.

  The glasses are back on. 'Fix it today. You know I cannot abide body hair.'

  Shakily, Mary Anne picks up her notes, swallows hard and reconvenes the meeting.

It's the weekly guest cocktail event at H Hotel Mayfair. Jennifer Griffin, the eccentric and wacky executive manager is stalking around the lounge chivvying staff to get everything ready before the first arrivals. We have had our meeting and now she has persuaded me to stay for a glass of champagne and sweet talk some of her guests. Apparently, her deputy's off sick and the marketing manager is on business in Sweden so my support is needed.

  'They're usually deadly dull, darling. Do hang about.'

  I stand on the whitewashed floor boards, glass in hand, examining some of the weird abstract paintings adorning the walls. The furniture is minimal and black and the slate grey walls give the place a moody atmosphere beloved of pop stars and Hollywood A-listers. Jennifer is drawing frantically at a cigarette.

  'I thought this was a non-smoking lounge?'

  'Oh is it? Thanks for telling me,' she grins, defiantly wafting smoke in the air. A receptionist hurtles through the swing doors.

  'I'm afraid we have a situation, Miss Griffin.'

  Jennifer smiles serenely and follows her out of the lounge to the reception. Several guests arrive by the same doors and are offered cocktails by the attendant waiters. Slightly awkwardly, I go to greet them, jabbering animatedly about the wonderful attractions London has to offer, and about the hotel and its services. A large Texan observes me with a dark smile.

  'Forgive me, but my wife says the drapes in this hotel are a disgrace. Have you seen how dirty they are?'

  'Well, I can't say I've examined them too carefully, but…'

  'You do work here, don't you?' he booms.

  Jennifer is back, a look of controlled panic on her face. 'Ah, there you are,' she gushes, prodding my arm. 'I have a little problem to deal with upstairs so could you hold the fort for a while?'

  I'm about to reply when the Texan interrupts. 'Are you the manager?'

  She introduces herself and gives him a winning handshake. 'Mr Herbert, isn't it? So lovely to meet you. I'd love to talk, but I have a teeny problem to sort out and then I'll be right back.'

  He nods his head. 'That's fine by me, but later my wife would like to talk to you about the terrible state of the drapes in the hotel.'

  Jennifer claps her hands together. 'That's marvellous, because this is Jane Kirby, our housekeeper.'

  She pushes me towards him and rushes off.

  'Why, you little cheat,' he guffaws. 'Giving yourself another name when we met! Boy oh boy, my wife's gonna take you to task. Here she comes now…'

  I turn round, miserably acknowledging a vast trifle of a woman in red and yellow descending upon us. The huge jelly breasts wobble threateningly, and the hips, like lumpy custard, bulge inside the tight yellow satin skirt.

  Some nightmarish minutes later, having promised to replace every drape in the entire hotel, I manage to extricate myself from the throng and head for the reception area. A siren is whining close by and a cluster of lugubrious staff are hanging around the dark lobby.

  'What the hell's going on?' I demand of one of the concierges.

  He beckons me closer, sweeping the room with his eyes before running a forefinger across his throat.

  'Someone's done himself in. Room 208.'

  'Oh my gosh,' I mumble. 'Is he still alive?'

  'Course he's bloody not. It's a bloodbath up there. We'll have to drag him down the staff stairs. Heavy bugger too.'

  He yawns and flicks idly at a copy of
The Sun
.

  'You haven't seen the body, have you?'

  He clicks his teeth. 'I was the one that found him. He never picked up his theatre tickets yesterday so I went up there myself. Had a funny feeling about him.'

  'How awful for you.'

  'You get used to it. We've had four this year. Pill poppers are the easiest, no mess, see?'

  I return to the lounge and practically into the arms of the fat Texan diva. She dives at me with fury. 'You don't deserve your job, young lady! Look at the chandelier. I am astounded.'

  A hush descends on the room. Waiters clutch protectively at their drink trays, their mouths down-turned like Pierrot half moons of dismay as they raise their eyes to the ceiling. In a daze I glimpse up at the ultra-modern light creation at the centre of the room. Like a skilful trapeze artist, a plump grey mouse is ascending the electric cable which links the light to the ceiling rose, its long, thin tail curling like ivy around the flex. I face the smouldering eyes of the Texan woman, and the rest of the subdued hotel guests.

  'Well, what do you have to say for yourself?'

  I shrug helplessly. As the housekeeper manqué what should I say? Suddenly a hand grips my arm. Jennifer has slipped into the room and is all smiles.

  'Ah! There's Harold! I thought I'd lost him,' she trills.

  'Who's Harold?' barks the Texan trifle.

  'My pet mouse. Thank you so much for finding him. He escaped from his cage this morning.'

  'You are kidding?' scoffs fat Mr Herbert.

  'Not at all. He's the H Hotel mascot as in H for Harold?'

  The trifle is speechless as is the entire wide-eyed company. Her obese husband gawps up at the pirouetting rodent and then at Jennifer.

  'Blow me down,' he whispers. 'You English really are crazy sons of bitches!'

  Swooping on two glasses of bubbly, I pass one to Jennifer and give her a knowing smile.

  'Well, I suppose the only problem now is how to get the little darling down.'

Ed pushes his plate away from him and lies back on the deep plush sofa.

  'That Club sandwich was divine. I could almost eat another.'

  'Ed! Don't be a pig.'

  He reaches into his MEK and takes out some small white pills.

  'For my heart,' he says thinly, as he knocks them back with the remains of his water glass. 'So you think this trip to New York will be OK?'

  'I think it's fantastic that Charlene has fixed up the trip for when I'm over.'

  'Isn't November treacherously cold in Manhattan?' he whines.

  'Oh, don't be a wimp. You'll have a great time.'

  'I'm looking forward to seeing you run in the marathon,' he admits, and then, as an afterthought, 'Although I don't like crowds so we'll have to play it by ear.'

  'If you're very good I might get you an invite for Greedy George's Pet Parade. It's going to be a huge media sensation in Bryant Park.'

  He coughs frantically. 'With my cat allergy, that's the last place I'd want to be. The whole idea's insane. It could only happen in the States.'

  'Spoilsport. Perhaps I can lure you to H Hotel's launch party in Tribeca instead?'