Busy Woman Seeks Wife (31 page)

“Three hundred?” she’d said after a pause, and Alex had explained briefly how Maurice had called her on her mobile at six
and screeched dramatically that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and how he couldn’t get the right strawberries
and how his boyfriend’s cat had been run over and that really he couldn’t see how he could get everything done on time. Alex
had been too shocked to react at first and had simply said “Okay” and put down the phone, but it was in the taxi to meet Bettina
Gordino at the Stanfield that the sheer extent of the disaster this represented sank in. Three hundred people, top sports
and fashion journalists from all over the world, arriving at nine o’clock tomorrow morning and not so much as a bread roll
to feed them on. She knew how Jesus must have felt. Ignoring the black leather, chrome and white lilies in the hotel’s retro
lobby, she’d bolted for the ladies’ room and had sat on the loo for ten minutes, howling and sticking her fist in her mouth
every time she heard someone come in. Her finger had hovered over Saff’s number for ages before she’d finally called her.
It was a ridiculous thing to ask. How could one woman single-handedly produce food for that number in the middle of the night?
But it was Alex’s only chance and, true to form, Saff had swallowed hard and simply said, “Leave it with me.”

“Can you tell Bettina Gordino that Alex Hill is here, please?” The thin receptionist, his hair gelled forward as if he’d been
in a wind tunnel, ran his finger down the computer screen to check the room number.

“Mmm.
Signorina
Gordino. Are you her publicist?” he asked sniffily.

“No no. She’s doing a show for my product launch tomorrow. Is there a problem?”

“Well, dear,” he sighed. “She’s been here about half an hour and has called down to reception five times already. The bath
towels are too small, the pillows are too soft, can she get MTV, the air-conditioning wasn’t cold enough, oh, and could we
find her some bendy straws? She wants red gummi bears and has asked that we fill the mini bar with Diet Coke. In glass bottles
only.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re on the case with the gummi bears.”

“Thank you,” Alex breathed. “I’d really appreciate it if you could… look after her.”

“We’ll do our best. Miracles may take a little longer. This isn’t Claridge’s you know.”

“Indeed not.”

He picked up the phone to call Bettina’s suite. “Have you noticed,” he said as he waited, tapping his long thin fingers on
the blotter, “that royalty try to behave like us these days—with their baseball caps and visits to the supermarket—and celeb-rities
behave like royalty? This one”—he indicated the still-ringing phone—“would make Marie Antoinette blush.”

By half past eight, Alex was ready to admit the guillotine would have been too good for her. After frantic and begging calls
to a health club where Alex had once been a member, she had managed to procure the diva a masseuse and someone to give her
a pedicure, with a generous wedge of cash and the cachet of Bettina’s name finally persuading them to cancel any evening appointments
and come running. The hotel came up trumps with the right-colored gummi bears but they, regrettably, turned out to be the
wrong make, and a bellhop was dispatched to buy every type and make he could find until she approved.

“ ’Otels in dis country are so terribull.” Bettina pouted as she sat back against white silk cushions in her suite, draped
in a thick hotel dressing gown, having her toenails painted by the beautician. “You ’ave no idea ’ow to treat peoples. Now
give me New York or Los Angeles. Nossing is too much trouble. What ’ave you lined up for me this evening? ”

Alex swallowed and crossed her fingers behind her back. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh dear, dear, dat’s up to you. Dis city is so dismal. What on earth do you do for fun?” Get Indian takeaway? Shave my legs?
thought Alex dejectedly. “I want to see the real London,” Bettina gasped, smoothing her hand over her perfect, unlined forehead.
“I don’t want any of your tourist London.” She waved her hand expansively. “So boring and so dirty. I want to see the London
no one else sees. That,” she announced determinedly, “is what
I
have in mind.”

“Right,” thought Alex quickly, discarding the faint hope that Bettina might be tired and wanting an early night. “Would you
like dinner somewhere?”

“Dinner? I don’t eat dinner before a show!” she screeched, pulling her foot out of the beautician’s hand. “It makes me bloat
up and spoils the look of the clothes. Didn’t my peeeple tell you? Incidentally, where are the clothes?”

“Here any moment,” Alex fibbed quickly. “No dinner then. How about a show?” She couldn’t think what, and time was running
out, but didn’t good concierges boast they could get any theater seat in London?

“What do you think I am? A child! I don’t want one of your tacky musicals!”

“No, of course you don’t.” Alex had run out of ideas and looked at her watch. Perhaps her friend in reception might have some
brain waves. How much would an exclusive pod on the London Eye be? she wondered. “Just give me a moment. Relax and enjoy your
pedicure and I’ll be back.”

Ignoring the lift, Alex dashed down the stairs to the lobby but behind the desk now was a young girl who simply shrugged when
Alex asked her for some pointers. The last thing Alex needed tomorrow morning was a disgruntled supermodel who’d had a shitty
night in watching
Newsnight.
Her mobile buzzed in her pocket. Alex sighed.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Just thought I’d wish you luck for tomorrow, dear. I hope it all goes well.” Alex couldn’t stop herself and let out an hysterical
cackle that made the head of the girl behind the desk shoot up, a look of alarm on her face. “What’s wrong, dear? Are you
okay?”

“Absolutely and completely not okay, Mum, to be honest.” She could hear the hysteria rising in her voice. “I should be at
the venue with Camilla, checking everything is ready for the biggest launch I have ever had to handle. But here I am standing
in the lobby of the Stanfield, one of London’s more pretentious hotels. I have a caterer who’s had a hissy fit and pulled
out. I have Saff producing breakfast for three hundred, though God knows how she’ll achieve that. I have a diva of a supermodel
upstairs who will only eat red gummi bears of a certain brand and whose outfit for the show is in Istanbul. I have Frankie
trying to get it out of the factory, through customs and onto a flight so he’s back here by nine a.m. tomorrow. And the aforementioned
model is throwing a wobbly about the fact that she is bored and wants entertaining and anything I suggest isn’t good enough.
And to cap it all, I have someone at work who is determined to throw a wrench into whatever I do out of some odd vendetta
against me.” Alex stopped, exhausted.

There was a long pause at the end of the phone. “So, for once,” said her mother eventually in a soft and rather teasing voice,
“my oh-so-independent daughter is admitting that she needs a bit of help?”

“A bit of help?” Alex knew her voice was raised. “I need a sodding miracle!”

“Well, darling, for a start you need to trust people. If Saff says she can help, then she can. Let Frankie sort out things
his end. He is a very capable man, and if anyone can get the clothes out of Turkey he can.” Alex smiled to herself at the
absurdity of what her mother was saying—how could she possibly know?—but it was sweet of her to try. “I don’t know anything
about sabotage, though it sounds nasty. I remember someone did slash one of my dresses once before a show out of jealousy,
that’s usually the reason. Now, as you know, I am something of an expert on entertaining and being entertained. I’ll be there
in…” She paused, presumably looking at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. “Twenty-five minutes.” She put down the
phone before Alex could say anything else.

Fifty-five minutes later—after a delay while Bettina tried on and discarded ten different pairs of shoes—Alex experienced
one of the more remarkable moments of her life: the sight of her sixty-eight-year-old mother in a floaty pink caftan and white
trousers, jewelry jingling, strolling out of the Stanfield hotel chatting animatedly to one of the world’s highest-paid models.
The expression on the younger woman’s face was a mixture of awe and disbelief. From the moment the Bean had arrived, promptly
for the first time in her life, Bettina had been putty in her hands. For once the model, who was probably paid more in a week
than the Bean had earned in her lifetime, was cowed with admiration at this icon of the film and modeling world.

Alex smiled. Yes, perhaps having a famous mother had its compensations. She hailed the next taxi and headed for Brixton.

T
he last place Ella imagined she would ever see someone like Alex was in a hip-hop club in Brixton. But Frankie had been so
insistent on the phone from Turkey that Ella had gotten in touch with Alex straightaway. Alex, her voice frantic, had explained
that she would be at the venue until late for the lighting and sound check and could Ella come there? She’d naturally sounded
quite confused at being hounded by her erstwhile housekeeper but when Ella explained that Frankie had contacted her, Alex
sounded keener to cooperate.

The space was huge and painted black, dominated by lighting gantries and engineers climbing over them attaching lights. Men
in black T-shirts with headphones were rushing everywhere and carpenters were banging nails into a catwalk that ran down the
center of the room. Thirty-foot-high Zencorp logos in silver covered the walls and the whole place seemed to glisten and throb
with excitement and expectation.

Ella almost had to run to keep up with Alex, who was alternately talking to people and trying to get through to someone on
her phone. “Is he on his way?” she asked over her shoulder to Ella as she headed towards the green room. “Has he got the stuff?”

“He’d just left the factory when I spoke to him last,” Ella panted. “I didn’t have time to find out more because he had no
battery on his phone.”

“Oh bugger.” There was deep concern in Alex’s voice. “Oh God…”

Ella put out her hand to stop Alex and get her attention. “Alex, he’s the most reliable man I’ve ever met. Trust him.” Alex
was looking hard at her. “He once drove from Birmingham Rep to Carlisle just to change the wheel on my car on the M6 because
I couldn’t afford to go to a garage. He’s always there when he says he’s going to be.”

Alex sighed. “I really want to believe you.”

“You must, Alex, which is why you’ve got to listen to me now. If Frankie says you need to wear an earpiece, then you need
to wear it.”

Alex still looked skeptical. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand and was shuffling through them with a worried frown on
her face. “Look, Ella, do we have to talk about this now? I can’t find where I’ve written down the phone number for Bettina’s
driver. I keep getting unobtainable and that can’t be right. I have to double-check it.”

“Look, I can see you are busy—let me take care of this. I can get the equipment from a… a friend of mine. He works in
radio and he’s got access to everything you could ever need. I’m sure he’ll lend it to me. I’ll call him straightaway. Please,
Alex,” Ella pleaded. “Frankie said it was vital.”

Alex seemed to reflect. An odd expression crossed her face and Ella wondered if she’d gone too far, but Frankie had sounded
so urgent. Finally, Alex nodded, her face serious. “Okay, Ella. Do it. If Frankie says it’s essential, it’s essential. I trust
him. And God knows I don’t trust many people at the moment. Go for it.” And she turned away and continued rummaging through
her papers.

Ella walked off in triumph and jabbed out the number on her phone. “Hi, Mike. Are you still awake? Don’t go to bed yet, sweetheart,
I’m on my way home. She’s agreed to the earpiece so we need to get to your office to pick it up with the radio mikes. Put
the kettle on, will you?” She smiled at his reply. “Mmm, me too, but we’ll have to wait till later for that. I’ll make it
worth it though.” And she snapped her phone shut with a grin.