Persuading Annie (15 page)

‘I don’t know. There’s too much …’

Too much what? Anger? Movement? Sensuality?

‘…
Red
.’

‘Of course there is!’ Annie had explained. ‘It symbolises blood. Women. Power.’

‘Oh, power, yes, I
like
it.’

They stared for a bit longer. Samantha wasn’t quite convinced.

‘And a lot of
black
.’

‘Anger. The irony of post-feminism.’

Samantha gasped.

‘Oh, yes, you’re
so
right. The
irony
of post-feminism. It almost talks to you, doesn’t it?’

Annie nodded. ‘I see it as a symbol of women’s growing alienation in a post-urban society.’

Samantha gasped again and stared afresh at the picture. ‘Oh so do I, so do I.’

They stared a bit more and then Samantha made her mind up.

‘If she does a couple of female nudes I’ll sign her up.’

Annie smiled. Now she wouldn’t have to resort to Markhams’ money.

As usual, Annie had been right. Tiny red circular stickers now adorned the bottom right-hand corner of nearly all the paintings. It was enough to make up for the fact that ‘the irony of post-feminism’ had become Samantha’s phrase.

As Annie put the kettle on, she heard Samantha’s stiletto heels on the parquet floor. She took a deep breath and went out into the gallery.

‘Morning,’ she called out. ‘Coffee?’

Samantha stood stock still in the middle of the room, staring at one of the nudes. Her eyes were screwed up as she stared hard at the painting. Annie often wondered what Samantha actually looked like behind the peroxide and face paint. Probably quite pretty.

She stared at the painting from behind the counter. It was less bold than all the other ones, less unique and less confident. It had been the last one the artist had done and it was one of the few that still hadn’t sold. Samantha spent about half an hour every day trying to decide whether it would be a sound investment for her to buy it. Eventually she turned her head towards Annie.

‘I’ve decided,’ she said absently. ‘I’m going to buy it.’

She walked towards Annie, her face grim with determination.

‘Black, no sugar. You’re an angel.’

* * * * *

It hadn’t taken Annie long to realise that she didn’t need to actually join in conversations with Samantha. Which was useful today, because she felt rather preoccupied. Samantha’s lips were moving so Annie kept on nodding pensively.

‘So I said to him, all condescending, “I’m the manager actually.” You should have seen his face. It was a study. Wish I’d had a camera. You’d have loved it. It was as if I’d just said to him ‘What these? No they’re false! But if you like them, you can take them home with you.”’

Samantha’s raucous laughter echoed throughout the gallery.

Annie smiled on cue. ‘So what happened?’

‘Happened? What do you think? The sod walked off. Men are fucks anyway.’

Annie nodded and the two women stared out into the empty room.

‘Did someone say coffee?’ asked Samantha.

Annie went to the back office and put the kettle on.

‘Black, no sugar. You’re an angel.’

12

A FEW DAYS
after the delightful dinner party at Jake and David’s place, Sophie and Fi decided it would be rude not to invite them back to say thank you. They also decided it would be stupid not to; it wasn’t often that you found a looker like Jake living beneath your brother. Another deciding factor was that they knew they couldn’t waste any time. The consultants were only here temporarily. They decided to invite them to dinner the next weekend.

Even though technically Fi had a boyfriend, of whom she was rather fond, she was not insensitive to the charms of two hunks competing over her. Sophie, on the other hand, was entirely unattached and more than ready to fall hopelessly in love. And it had better happen soon because she was beginning to develop a crush on most of the men in her life. Including the postman. In fact, particularly the postman. Something had to be done.

An evening of light entertainment was planned at their delightful attic flat in West Hampstead.

They planned an evening to look forward to. A date was arranged, the guests invited, a menu decided and alcohol stocked up.

As for Annie, she firmly believed that the more times she saw Jake, the calmer she would become in his company. So this dinner party could only be a good thing. It was necessary for her to go through, so that she could move beyond it. She was being cold-hearted, cool-headed, calm-spirited, practical, cynical, wise.

Victoria and Charles had now decided that Jake Mead would indubitably ‘get’ one of Charles’s sisters. They liked David, but he didn’t stand a chance next to the looks and charm of Jake. Annie started to feel a strong sense of sympathy for David. She had always liked the underdog, but none so wholeheartedly as him.

But which sister would Jake get? This gossip became Charles and Victoria’s constant conversation and as with everything between the pair, Annie became the referee.

Charles was convinced that Sophie would ‘catch’ Jake, but Victoria was rooting for Fi. Both had their reasons. Charles didn’t want Fi to split up from her boyfriend, Tony, a self-made American who had come over to Britain in the mid-90s, started up a gym and now owned a string of the most exclusive health clubs in the country. He had just opened his first golf club. First-rate fellow, opined Charles to anyone who would listen, just the chap to have in the family.

Victoria hated Tony. She detested his loudness, the way he thought her family name was ‘quaint’ and the way he said his ‘a’s by opening his mouth as wide as it would go and then breathing out. It was disgusting. She didn’t want Fi to connect the Markham name with some low-life American. Where was Fi’s sense of tradition? Her sense of heritage? Breeding? Taste? Jake Mead, handsome, wealthy, well bred and British, could be just the man to put a stop to all that nonsense.

‘If Sophie would stop hogging Jake, Fi would win hands
down,’ she informed her husband, over their Caesar salad lunch on the day of the party.

‘Nonsense. Anyone can see that the man has the hots for Sophie,’ Charles replied.

‘Has the hots for?’ mocked Victoria. ‘
Nobody
says “has the hots” any more, Charles,’ said Victoria. ‘Annie,’ she continued, ‘tell your brother-in-law he’s got the brains of a chicken.’

‘Charles, you have the brains of a chicken, please pass the dressing.’

Charles smiled at Annie. ‘Why is it,’ he said, turning to his wife, ‘that when an insult comes from Annie, it’s endearing?’

‘Because she doesn’t know you like I do, dear.’

Charles was undeterred.

‘Well, it obviously takes a chicken to work out that if Sophie is single and Fi is in a happy relationship with a splendid fellow, Jake is going to end up with Sophie.’

Victoria merely shook her head at her husband. ‘You just haven’t got a clue, have you?’ she started. ‘Think about—’

‘Clearly not, my dear’ he acquiesced, ‘not a—’

‘I was talking rhetorically, Charles. Don’t interrupt.’

‘Sorry.’

Victoria sat back in her chair. ‘A man meets two delightful, one-day-to-be wealthy sisters,’ she expounded. ‘One is all over him, very obvious, the other keeps her distance. He then discovers that the enigmatic one has an equally wealthy boyfriend who has been on the scene for a while and who keeps proposing to her, but she hasn’t yet made up her mind. Now, which one is the man going to go for?’

Charles shrugged his shoulders wearily.

‘OK, I’ll try talking to you in a language you understand,’
said Victoria, growing tetchy. ‘Listen carefully, Charles.’ She spoke slowly. ‘A golfer – that’s a GOLFER – is about to take the most important shot of a tournament. The crowd is hushed.’

Charles concentrated. Victoria continued.

‘He has two options. He can either take it the easy way—’

‘Straight down the middle?’ asked Charles. ‘Or laying up?’

Victoria eyed him eloquently. ‘Don’t put ideas into my head,’ she whispered.

Charles shut up.

‘Or,’ she continued purposefully, ‘he can do something that will be a challenge to his superior skills and that will be talked about for ever more. Now, Charles, which one do you think he’ll do?’

Charles took a long, deep breath, shaking his head slowly with thought.

‘Which golf course are we on?’ he asked eventually.

Victoria stared at her husband. ‘Remind me again how much you’ll inherit,’ she asked in an ominously quiet voice.

Charles refused to give up. ‘Well, I’m sorry but the course makes a big difference,’ he said.

‘It’s a bloody metaphor!’ shouted Victoria, finally losing her cool. ‘Don’t you know a metaphor when you hear one?’

Charles looked out of the window.

‘Charles!’ she yelled, livid. ‘I’m talking to you. I said, don’t you know a metaphor when you hear one?’

‘Oh, sorry dear,’ he said calmly, ‘I thought that was a rhetorical question.’

Annie started clearing the plates. As she left the dining room, she heard her sister telling her husband,

‘Jake will marry Fiona. And you will have to keep paying your subscription for your wretched golf club for ever.’

By the time Annie returned with their coffees, both Charles and Victoria were grinning excitedly.

‘We’ve made a bet,’ Victoria told her sister excitedly. ‘If I win and Jake gets Fi, we go on a month-long holiday to Barbados without the boys and if he gets Sophie, we go on holiday to somewhere with lots of golf courses with the boys.’

‘And if, by some quirk of fate, Jake gets Victoria,’ finished Charles, taking his coffee into the other room, ‘I’ll be on a lifelong bloody holiday, boys or not.’

* * * * *

Fi held the list with great concentration. Sophie looked round the kitchen and began.

‘Nibbles galore.’

‘Check.’

‘Stunning Delia desserts in fridge.’

‘Check.’

‘Soup simmering in saucepan.’

‘Check.’

‘Croutons.’

‘SHIT! No croutons. It’s ruined.’

‘They’re passé. All oil.
Really
bad for you.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘But Tony loves them.’

‘He’s American.’

‘Good point.’

‘Right, where were we? Ah yes, guinea fowl ready to come out of oven in approximately an hour.’

‘Check.’

‘Honey-glazed vegetables roasting in oven.’

‘Check.’

‘White wine and champagne in fridge.’

‘Check.’

‘Two outfits revealing just the right amount of bronzed cleavage, leg and midriff.’

Fi smiled at her sister.

‘Check mate, sweetie.’

* * * * *

Ten minutes’ drive away, in a bedroom on the first floor apartment of the Markham Hampstead mansion, David scanned his CDs. He grinned, picked out his ‘Getting Ready’ album and placed it in the CD player. As the invigorating sound of drum and bass thumped its way round the flat, he went to his en suite shower.

He felt good about tonight. Ordinarily, he’d be knackered by now. They’d been working nearly every hour God gave, planning, organising and carrying out workshops with the Markhams’ staff and all he’d want to do would be to slouch on the sofa watching telly. But that life was over. Divorce had opened the door on a new life and now he was back on the scene. Out there. Running on adrenaline.

Down the hall, in his bedroom, Jake finished his fiftieth press up, wondering why they seemed so much harder to complete than usual. He must remember to tell Dr Blake about that next week – that and the twitch in his neck. Bloody clients. Didn’t they realise how knackering it was to do their job? Did they really think that a consultant wants to spend his evening with the people he spends his day having to be nice to? On the other hand, that Sophie
looked up for it. Just the thought of how Annie would feel if he and Sophie got it together almost turned him on.

He flicked the thermostatically controlled shower control to freezing cold to wake him up properly and sighed loudly. Bloody clients, he thought again. And then he checked himself in the mirror, saw the tension bordering on excitement in his eyes and looked away quickly before getting into the shower.

* * * * *

Charles drove to the dinner party, with Victoria next to him and Annie in the back. It was the journey from hell. Annie couldn’t decide what she feared most; dying in a horrendous pile-up or getting caught in the crossfire of her sister and Charles. It made the prospect of meeting Jake in ten minutes’ time feel like mere child’s play.

Charles drove with all the dexterity of a demented seal. One could only imagine the chaos he must cause on the golf course.

Victoria had stayed as calm as possible at first, but then two things went wrong. First, Charles had started the engine and then he’d proceeded to try and drive.

‘Charles, you’re driving like a moron.’

‘Right you are, dear.’

But gradually their good moods vanished and Victoria started to unnerve Charles as much as his driving was unnerving her. She kept tutting and gasping, holding her hands in front of her face and occasionally crossing herself – reducing Charles to an even worse state of nerves than usual when he drove.

‘
Careful!
’ she shrieked suddenly.

‘What of?’ cried Charles, seeing nothing on the road,
but slamming on the brakes anyway. Annie tumbled forward.

‘I thought I saw a cat,’ explained Victoria.

‘Jesus Christ, woman, I’m going to need a valium when we get there.’

‘You need it now,’ replied Victoria firmly. ‘Did you take some Speed with your Tums before setting off?’

Charles ignored his wife, started up the car again, made a right turn and within moments was confronted by a large Volvo inescapably blocking the road. Cars were parked bumper to bumper on either side of the one-way street and thanks to the Volvo, hazard lights flashing, it was now rendered impassable. Charles hurumphed loudly. He looked in his rear-view mirror. A car had just appeared behind him. He hurumphed again. The person in the car behind him pressed his horn. Charles jumped in shock, swore, then hurumphed again. The driver behind him pressed his horn again.