Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (7 page)

The taxi cuts a gash through two lanes of stationary vehicles waiting at the lights, and then turns into a dark, stubby little side street which leads directly onto a small square. A less enlightened or kindly passerby might consider it more of a parking bay flanked by a few grand terraces and an underground car park, but Audley
Square
it is. The rain continues to blubber inconsolably beyond my window as the car draws to a halt by the pavement, shivering involuntarily, perhaps with the chill. I stare beyond the blurred window at the tall redbrick building which now serves as my home from home when I'm back in London. A minute's sprint away is The Dorchester, rising like a decorous wedding cake, its lights twinkling in the leaden sky, and the posturing Hilton with its shiny windows and black beetle limos outside. For all its charm, my club could do with a generous lick of paint and modernising and so, like a dowdy cousin, hangs back from its more glitzy relatives along Park Lane. Its quaint and cosy aspect attracts scores of female members brought up on a diet of Mallory Towers, whose most cherished childhood memories include winceyette pyjamas, pillow fights, and a time when lemon sherbet was presented in small twists of white paper – I am one of those girls. The rain is bucketing down and I briefly contemplate how wet I'm going to get dashing to the front door without an umbrella, and with a truculent case in tow. Very, that's how. The driver grins at me in the mirror.

  'Forgotten your brolly?'

  'Well, it is May.'

  'Makes no difference, love.'

  He's right about that. The weather in Britain is impossible to predict any more so why don't I remember to pack an umbrella? Because I'm a dolt. Simple as that. I thrust the taxi receipt in my pocket and wheel my case out onto the wet pavement. In a blink I'm at the front door, but still manage to get soaked. The night porter, Noel, lets me in and tuts loudly.

  'No coat?'

  'Well, it is May.'

  'What?' he exclaims.

  Oh, let's not go there again, I sigh to myself. After signing in, I spend the next few minutes warming my toes by the hearth in the lobby. There's no fire in the grate but, bizarrely, it feels comforting just sitting in front of it. Noel is from Sri Lanka, and together we are trying to help raise funds for an orphanage in Colombo. In fact, it's entirely his fault that I shall be running the New York marathon. I bid him goodnight and squeeze into the tiny lift which might usefully double as a metal coffin. In my room, with its floral eiderdown, flannelette sheets and feather pillows, I am whisked back to childhood holidays in Wales staying in my grandfather's cottage in a remote village.

  A year ago when Alan and I had taken the decision to sell our flat in Pimlico, we knew that I would still need a pied-à-terre for my work trips back to London. Friends helpfully offered rooms but, not wanting to become the proverbial bad penny, I decided to hunt out an inexpensive refuge of my own. By sheer luck I discovered my club, an extraordinary oasis from the ravages of London life, and home to an irresistible cocktail of colourful, eccentric and quixotic members. The deciding factor for joining was the dark and musty oak-panelled library with its faux bookcase behind which lay a secret chamber. For that alone I would have signed up. True, the bathrooms were mostly shared, at times the water ran cold, and in the bedrooms the drawers and windows jammed, but for all that it represented one of London's hidden jewels, a national treasure to be lovingly preserved.

  I slowly unpack my case and with effort get ready for bed. Before setting the alarm I take a cursory glance at my loyal and tatty old leather diary. Since moving to Mallorca, I have stubbornly resisted embracing the new age of electronic gadgets and that includes fruit-branded diaries. My gun-toting client, Manuel Ramirez of H Hotels, has warned me about the perils of such toys. Apparently, last month while washing his socks in the bath of a plush Parisian hotel, his BlackBerry® fell from his jacket pocket into the bath water and that was the end of it. Of course, had he used the hotel's laundry service, the BlackBerry® might have remained intact and his socks in better condition, but that's neither here nor there.

  I turn the page and groan. In the morning I have an early breakfast meeting with the owner of Miller Magic Interiors in New York. Anyone with the name Daniella Popescu-Miller, spells trouble. And then at six-thirty, joy of joys, I'm due to see my old adversary, Greedy George, to discuss the delights of cat suits and dog collars. It's nearly midnight and I'm too exhausted to read the blur of other appointments, so I switch out the light. In my mind's eye I can see Alan and Ollie asleep in their beds. The cats will be prowling in the orchard in search of mice and rats, and my beloved frogs will be crooning in the pond.

Someone's knocking on the bedroom door. I squint at my watch in the gloom. The overhanging light bulb has blown and I'm dressing by the sickly light of the bedside lamp. The chintzy curtains are drawn back, but it might as well still be night. Rain pounds the window and the sun continues to slumber beneath a soft quilt of slate cloud. Having risen at six o'clock, I managed to run around the quagmire of Hyde Park for the best part of an hour before returning, sodden, to the club for a quick shower. Now I'm attempting to dress and slap on some make-up before my first meeting of the day.

  'Coo-eee!!'

  I open the door.

  Bernadette is gawping at me from the other side. 'What kept you?' she asks with her Irish lilt.

  'Ah, Bernadette! I'm in a bit of a hurry. Is everything OK?'

  This bustling, singing, duster-wielding ball of Irish fun, who relishes tuna sandwiches before the sun is up and whose auburn hair is always immaculately set come rain or shine, is the club's esteemed housekeeper. She is cherished by the members and feared by those who attempt clandestine midnight feasts. She can sniff a chocolate wrapper ten feet away and her ability to detect biscuit crumbs in the bed is uncanny. It doesn't matter whether you're a baroness, an honourable, a lady, an MP or a commoner: as far as Bernadette is concerned everyone's guilty until proven innocent. We are all at her mercy and the promise of some much coveted shortcake biscuits left on the tea tray in our rooms is enough to have us playing to her tune.

  'Always in a rush you are,' she scoffs. 'God, look at you. Like a whippet, poor creature, no flesh on you. Nice to see you back. Did you notice the shortcake I put on your tray last night?'

  'You're an angel.'

  'Go on, get dressed, before you upset the other old ladies.'

  I stand by the door, wet hair clinging to my face as Bernadette bustles down the corridor rowdily singing an Irish ballad as she goes.

Standing on Piccadilly, I survey the vast grey frontage of The Wolseley on the opposite side of the street. Drizzling rain blurs this snapshot of Venetian styled elegance, as I peep out from the rim of my dripping umbrella. Strictly speaking, I can't claim ownership, given that it's on loan from my club. In front of me, long, metallic tentacles of traffic extend slowly east and west, their progress impeded by the rain and sluggish traffic lights. I weave between cars and hop onto the pavement, entering the chic, grand cafe through one of the arched portals. It's eight in the morning and already a dull hubbub of noise rises like smoke to the very top of the domed ceiling. At the front desk a woman whips the wet umbrella from my hand and leads me into the main restaurant and through the maze of occupied tables. At a discreet corner table, tucked away beneath one of the marble pillars, sits Rachel. She's already scribbling furiously in a voluminous notepad, her honey brown hair scooped up into an efficient French pleat. She gives me a winning smile.

  'Excellent. You're early.' She leans forward and pecks me on the cheek then orders herself another cappuccino and a Darjeeling tea for me.

  'I like the suit.'

  She brushes the fine wool sleeve of her jacket. 'You know my penchant for red. It gives me confidence.'

  'You don't need it. Tall people never do.'

  'I'm not so sure.' She slams her notebook shut and leans towards me confidentially. 'Now, did you have a chance to read up on Daniella?'

  'Yep, I googled her. She's definitely one for the nutter file.'

  Her clear blue eyes lock onto me. 'I don't care if she's a psychopath as long as we win the account. She's got a $100 million dollar turnover and is the toast of New York.'

  'Did she tell you that?'

  'No,' she says impatiently. 'I've only spoken with her personal assistant, Mary Anne Bright. She says Daniella is a phenomenon.'

  'That's what's worrying me. She'll have an ego to match.'

  'Here, look at her catalogue. It just arrived yesterday. The products are amazing. She's got two stores in Manhattan selling her accessories and the interior design business is run from Trump Tower.'

  I flick through the thick, glossy pages of alabaster candelabras, scented candles and silver and porcelain ornaments. In fairness, it's quite tasteful, if a little predictable. Rachel gives a hiss.

  'Damn. She's already here.'

  Our breakfast appointment is effortlessly skimming the black and white marble floor in killer kittens.

  Rachel sounds breathless. 'I recognise her from the biog snaps. Listen, let me handle negotiations, while you schmooze her.'

  It's too late to respond because Rachel has leapt to her feet with hand thrust forward. I rise to face the phenomenon for myself. Oozing Coco Chanel and draped from head to foot in mink, the goddess of design extends a perfectly manicured, bony hand. On the middle finger sits a colossal diamond and on the wrist a gold charm bracelet of small diamond trinkets which glint under the light of the chandelier. Her face is masked by owl-like Gucci shades which hover above towering cheek bones and glossy lips pumped to perfection. Her hair, a rainbow of gold, cinnamon and amber tones, is coiffed into a lacquered spire vaguely reminiscent of Mr Whippy ice cream. A waiter stands spellbound, unsure whether this fusion of Cruella De Vil and Narnia's Snow Queen is the living thing. She lowers her glasses and beckons to him with a nail as sharp as a razor shell. 'Can we order? My time is limited.'

  Tremulously, he hands her the menu.

  'May I take your coat?' his voice is faint.

  She strokes the silky brown fur of the lapel. 'I don't think so, do you?'

  Rachel avoids my eyes and enthusiastically grips Daniella's hand.

  'It's wonderful to meet you at last, Miss Popescu-Miller.'

  She removes her glasses altogether, revealing a pair of hypnotic jade irises. 'Oh please, darling, call me Dannie.'

  After enthusiastic introductions we take our seats. Dannie casts her mink onto an abandoned chair where it flops, defeated, in a heap. She gives a cursory glance at the menu handed to her by our waiter.

  'Just some granola, summer fruits and an Evian for me,' she drawls.

  Rachel and I order brioche and toast. She winces. 'Watch the wheat, girls. So destructive to the digestive system.'

  An ungainly woman in a pale-blue trouser suit is waving from the entrance. Who's this? Dannie gives a terse nod.

  'Here's my assistant, Mary Anne. Her surname's Bright, which is kind of ironic.'

  We titter politely.

  'Sorry I'm late,' puffs the unfortunate Mary Anne. 'Have you ordered me something?'

  'Well, let me see,' says Dannie, theatrically studying the menu again. 'There don't appear to be any troughs of mayonnaise on here.'

  'Oh, she's always such a meanie,' screeches her assistant in paroxysms of hollow laughter, whipping the menu from Dannie's bejewelled hands. 'I'm a bit of a food addict, you see.'

  The waiter approaches her.

  'Ah, now these Cumberland sausage sandwiches, are they good?'

  'They're very tasty, madam – made in Cumberland in England.'

  'How nice. Well, I'll have a small one of those and a latte. Oh, and maybe a chocolate brioche. Thank you so much.' She hands him the menu.

  Dannie flashes her a menacing smile. 'Nothing else, dear heart?'

  Rachel comes to the rescue. 'Given that you're short on time, Dannie, is there anything specific in our proposal you'd like clarified?'

  She smiles seductively. 'It's perfect, girls. Mary Anne and I feel you have just the expertise we're after and my old friend Bryan Patterson says he loves working with you guys. That's all I needed to know.'

  Although Bryan still uses our services to promote his fragrance emporium in the UK, his star is waning with the press since he switched his business to pyramid-selling.

  'We have another client in New York now,' I hear myself saying. 'His name's George Myers. Do you know of him?'

  She bites her lip for a second and then her eyes brighten. 'The English leather man who's just opened on Fifth?'

  'The same.'

  'My God, why didn't you say? I met him at the Forbes party only last week. He's a scream.'

  I force a smile. 'He certainly is. I've worked with him for years.'

  'Yes,' says Rachel, now on a roll, 'They're very close. In fact, you'll be visiting him in New York in a few months time, won't you?'

  'Actually, not until November when I do the marathon.' I glare at her.

  Dannie gives a little scrunch of her nose. 'How marvellous, darling. Are you running for charity?'

  'An orphanage.'

  'Oh we must sponsor you, mustn't we, Mary Anne? Just think what a fun time we'll all have when you come over.'