Bad Heir Day (25 page)

Cassandra had had no idea she had such
resilience
.
Driving around in a
hire
car. And by no means the biggest available at that. And actually
surviving
the experience. She’d rather have died than do this in Kensington, yet here she was just west of Inverness in her Weekend Bargain Class A three-door “Disco” with its denim-effect seats and tan plastic trim, and the God of Style had not struck her down. Not yet, anyway.

It was, Cassandra reflected,
amazing
what the human spirit could bear. A fortnight ago, failure to get a table at Bam Bou or an on-the-day appointment with Jo Hansford would have seen her booking straight into the Priory. Were she to go to Jo Hansford now, Cassandra thought, the celebrated colourist might be in need of a spot of trauma counselling herself, given the state of her highlights. For, at the base of each platinum coloured hair shaft lurked a good one and a half black and sinister inches. Cassandra ruffled them ruefully in the driving mirror. Talk about going back to one’s roots. For the time being, at least, she would have to go cold turkey on blonde. Gold turkey, if you liked. She hadn’t really had much choice.

She hadn’t had much choice about the car either. It had been impossible to book a flight to Inverness for herself and Zak. How was she supposed to have remembered, with all the
millions
of other things she had to worry about, that Zak had been banned by BA after an incident involving an injured member of staff and unlocked central emergency doors eight miles above the Atlantic several months before? Those sorts of things just slipped one’s mind, although in this case they had been forcibly helped back into it again by the bookings clerk.

Honestly
,
Cassandra thought. Some people were so
petty
.
It wasn’t as if anyone
important
had been injured. Admittedly that
ridiculous
hostess Zak had been playing catch-the-gin-miniature with
had
ended up requiring plastic surgery, but quite frankly she’d needed that anyway. Face like a baboon’s bottom, learnt her makeup tips on the set of
Star Wars
,
by the looks of things. Forget launching a thousand ships, you wouldn’t want to launch a range of frozen peas with that. Anyway, Cassandra thought indignantly, was it
her
fault they’d been stuck on the tarmac for at least ten minutes waiting for Air Traffic Control to relent? Which had hardly helped with the Zak situation. He’d got bored and playful, that was all.

And harmless fun was all it had been—the door incident itself was merely the result of Zak
playing
at being an air steward. He’d only wanted to see what his emergency mask looked like when he pulled it down, and had only wanted to play at being a pilot when the captain—somewhat
reluctantly
,
it had to be admitted—had allowed him into the cabin. Best draw a veil over
that
one, Cassandra thought. The memory of the sudden plummeting of the Boeing 747 made her blood run cold, just as it had made her Bloody Mary run cold all over her white Sulka shirt at the time.

Still, hiring the car and booking the sleeper had worked out very well—not to mention
cheaply
.
Once she had got over the shock of realising that the box on the train she had thought must be her wardrobe area was actually the
entire cabin
,
the journey had passed without too much incident. Apart, of course, from that ludicrous nanny of the Tressells’ occupying the next door cabin and Zak’s ever-curious and enquiring mind bringing itself to bear on the communication cord.

Bumping into Geri had proved useful, however; she’d now got Anna’s address and fully intended to use it. It had been obvious from the way Geri had so determinedly talked Dampie Castle down, dismissing it as freezing, tiny, and so damp it was probably
wringing
,
that the place was vast, luxurious, and ramblingly romantic, probably complete with Jacuzzis and aubergine guest bathrooms. And, quite apart from the weight it would take off her bank account, staying in the castle would, Cassandra decided, prove a useful source of ideas. In the last few days she had been thinking the previously unthinkable—moving out of London. Property was so much cheaper up here; hopefully there’d be enough left after the divorce from Jett for a
starter
castle, at least. Reluctantly, Cassandra recognised she had to get out of her Kensington mind-set. She soon wouldn’t be able to afford anything more than a shoebox in W8 anymore. Location, location, location was all very well. But not if it was broom cupboard, broom cupboard, broom cupboard.

And there were other reasons for being in Scotland. No school in England having been prepared to rise to what Cassandra, in her letters to the headmaster, called “the particular challenge of Zak,” the virtues of Scottish education were now being explored. Chief among these virtues, Cassandra decided, was instilling in the pupil the appropriate degree of fiscal ambition. She had little on which to base this conviction other than the names of some of the places—but how, after all, could anyone at school in Stirling have anything other than a healthy respect for cash in all its forms? Unfortunately, the headmaster hadn’t seemed interested in any of hers. The school called Dollar Academy had also struck, so to speak, the right note with Cassandra, and so it had been devastating to receive a letter pleading a waiting list longer than an M1 Bank Holiday traffic jam. In the end, Cassandra had decided she had no option but to take the bull—and the headmasters—by the horns and come up and sort things out herself. So far, her in-person surgical strikes on the schools had failed to make much difference—it had, incidentally, been
amazing
how many of them knew Mrs. Gosschalk. Bloody woman got everywhere.

Cassandra had now moved on to the northwest Highlands, although getting around the place was driving her mad. These
ridiculous
little single tracks full of even more ridiculous people expecting her to
stop
for them, for some reason. Now she’d finally persuaded Zak he didn’t need to get out of the car to pee, be sick, or be bought things every five minutes, Cassandra had no intention of stopping for anyone. Zak had latched on with greater interest than she had anticipated to the idea of peeing into a plastic cup, although Cassandra had correctly assumed that anything to do with his willy would fascinate him.

“It’s a good job you’re a boy,” Cassandra observed, hearing the gushing of urine into the cup behind her. Unusually, Zak had insisted on sitting in the back seat.

“Why?”

“Because you can aim straight.”

“Cant
bints
aim straight?” demanded Zak, thrilled to be at last discussing his beloved subject. “Why don’t
birds
have cocks and balls?”

Cassandra sighed. Buttock-clenchingly uncomfortable though she found sexual organs herself—both literally and metaphorically—she knew it was vital to be as patient as possible with Zak. His young mind, after all, was still forming and misunderstandings in this very delicate area—
very delicate area—
could result in a lifelong psychiatric condition. Everything had to be explained very carefully and accurately. “Ladies have whiskers and gentlemen have tails,” Cassandra said. “I told you on the train.”

“But why don’t blokes have
cunts
?”
yelled Zak with relish. “After all, everyone has
arseholes
.”

Cassandra swallowed. “Darling, you know we call them front bottoms and back bottoms,” she said faintly, almost grateful for the sudden distraction of the flashing, frantic headlights of a car looming in her driving mirror. A few minutes later, Cassandra found herself faced with a furious dental supplies salesman from Aberdeen who had just received an unscheduled golden shower through the air conditioning system of his car. It suddenly became clear why Zak had insisted on being in the back seat.

“When I said you could aim straight,” she said as she got back in the car having spent a fortune on mouthwash, enough dental floss to last the rest of her life, and a state-of-the-art laser toothbrush apparently developed aboard a space shuttle, “I didn’t mean throwing the contents of your cup at any car that happened to be following us.” Sometimes, she thought ruefully, Zak really took the piss.

Zak did not reply.

Fearing one of his world-class sulks, Cassandra turned to see her son sitting rapt with the mobile glued to his ear. “Darling, give me that. I’ve told you before about dialling those 0898 numbers.”

Cassandra wrested the mobile out of Zak’s grasp and decided to call the London answerphone again. You never knew. Of late, she had become addicted to dialling the Knightsbridge phone number and listening with bated breath as the pitiless woman on the other end informed her “you have
no
new messages.” Yet Cassandra could still not shake off the conviction that in her absence, every glossy magazine and national newspaper in Britain had called leaving urgent messages on the answerphone wanting interviews. One never, after all, knew when the
Larry King Live
show would get in touch. And there was always the possibility that another publisher would ring with a huge offer.

Cassandra stabbed the autodial and listened.
Fifteen messages
!
Fifteen
!
It was unbelievable. Clearly, her fortunes had undergone a transformation more dramatic than Jocelyn Wildenstein after plastic surgery. Hand shaking, Cassandra pressed two.

Her dreams had come true. The
Guardian
,
the
Independent
,
the
Daily Telegraph
,
The Times
,
the
Daily Mail,
and the
Express
had all called wanting interviews.
Vogue
wanted to set up a photoshoot and
Harpers & Queen
wanted to do an At Home. Radios One, Two, and Four had called, as had the long-awaited
Larry King Live
researcher and about three representatives of prestigious publishing houses. It was overwhelming. In the bright blue sky of Cassandra’s happiness, there was but one small cloud. None of the messages were for her.

The phrases “ironic,” “cult,” and “the real-life Spinal Tap” were repeated again and again. “Jett St. Edmunds,” the Radio One researcher breathed reverently, “you are, quite literally, the new black.” Slowly, Cassandra worked out that not only was Jett’s nationwide tour of student halls proving a massive success, but “Sex and Sexibility,” the first single released from the
Ass Me Anything
comeback album, had gone straight to number one.

“With a bullet,” some of the journalists added, whatever that meant. She wouldn’t mind pumping a few bullets into Jett now.
Number one
.
Cassandra’s heart plummeted faster and colder than a block of frozen urine from a plane.

Cassandra slammed the mobile back into the glove compartment. It was just so
sodding typical
of him to get successful now she was in the middle of divorcing him. Having sat on his
arse
doing
fuck all
for the past ten years at least, he would choose
now
,
of all times, to get his act together and become famous.
And
,
no doubt, rich.
Bastard
,
thought Cassandra furiously. No wonder she was divorcing him.

***

Geri, Anna considered, was proving something of a disappointment on the moral support front. So far, she had failed to detect any of the expected
froideur
between her faithful friend and her conniving fiancé. On the contrary, they were getting on like a castle on fire. Geri seemed to be drinking in every detail about Dampie as enthusiastically as she was downing the gin and flat tonics Anna had been relegated to preparing from the rudimentary contents of the drinks tray.

“You know,” Geri said, “you should really think about promoting this place more. It’s so romantic and interesting. Have you ever thought of opening it to the public?”

Anna was unable to suppress a snort. Jamie shot her an indignant look.

“This place is a tourist gold mine.” Geri looked around decisively. “You’ve got turrets, towers, suits of armour, Dr. Johnson, and Mad Angus Thingy’s romantic burn, and that’s just for starters. You’ve even got a monster.”

“Have we?” Jamie looked amazed.

“Yes. That woman who showed me up to the sitting room was just about the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.” There was a silence. Anna looked keenly at Jamie.

“You mean Nanny?” Jamie’s voice was noncommittal. Then, confounding all expectation, his mouth moved up at the corners. “I suppose she is a bit fearsome,” he admitted.

Anna almost fell off her—admittedly rickety—chair. Jamie had never said anything before that implied Nanny was one whit less beautiful than Kate Moss.

“Any dungeons?” Geri enquired briskly. “Tourists love a good dungeon.”

“How come you know so much about it?” Anna asked.

“Actually,” Jamie interrupted, looking hurriedly at his watch, “I think we’d better go down to dinner. Nanny will be very cross if we’re late.”

“I was a hotel PR for years,” Geri confessed once they were seated at opposite ends and in the middle of the long dining table. “I quite enjoyed it, until…”

“What?” asked Anna.

“Until it all went horribly wrong when A. A. Gill was supposed to be going to one of the restaurants I represented. Everyone got in such a state because they didn’t know what he looked like that they made me do a drawing of him and fax it through.”

“No!” said Jamie. “How ridiculous.”

“Yes, and it all went more pear-shaped than the chef’s Belle Hélène. They ended up making the most
tremendous
fuss of someone who looked exactly like my drawing but turned out to be Jimmy Tarbuck. Poor Adrian Gill got completely ignored, was really pissed off, and slagged off the restaurant all over the
Sunday Times
.”