Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (40 page)

  'Can't you tell Dannie that you can't travel so much?'

  She gives a hoarse laugh. 'Heads up! Can you imagine what she'd say?'

  Rachel sighs. 'Pretty much.'

  'Besides, I need this job and I get paid well. So what if there's a bit of abuse? I can handle it.'

  The waitress pours us some coffee.

  I turn to Mary Anne. 'Is she coming soon?'

  'Any time, I guess. By the way, Rocky's got flu and couldn't come over this time. Can you recommend a good hair stylist for Dannie?'

  'One that does big hair?'

  'Whatever.'

  'I can ask mine.'

  'He'd have to come over tomorrow morning.'

  'No problem. I'll sort it out.'

  There are voices in the corridor. Dannie, accompanied by the club's receptionist, appears at the library door. She gives a gracious smile to her companion.

  'Thank you, darling. That'll be all.'

  With arms outstretched she wafts into the room on a cloud of Chanel.

  'Oh my god! This is so incredible. I love it.'

  She wanders about, feeling the bookcases and smelling the covers of leather tomes. Casually, she strolls back to the table.

  'A plate of biscuits? Oh, I'm so glad you won't starve, Mary Anne.'

  Her assistant gulps down what she has in her mouth and wipes away the evidence with her serviette. Dannie scrunches her nose and smiles.

  'And where's this secret panel you told me about?'

  Rachel and I lead her over to the faux bookcase. With genuine delight she pushes the false panel and shrieks when she finds herself in a small, hidden anteroom. Rachel waits till she's inside and whispers to me, 'Any chance of sealing her in?'

  I push Rachel away and try to maintain some sort of composure.

  'Come and have some coffee, Dannie.'

  She steps back out of the tiny room and perches on a wooden chair at the table, spellbound by her experience.

  'Do you know, darlings, this has to be one of the most special days in my entire life?'

  As always, Dannie the actress knows how to deliver a line crackling with fake sincerity, but on this occasion I'm somewhat puzzled to see her eyes brimming with tears. Perhaps, I ponder, even spoilt divas like Daniella Popescu-Miller occasionally recognise that simple pleasures really are the best.

  'Mahogany, how can I help you?' 'Please, get me Richard, it's urgent.' 'Just one moment. Who's calling?' A few seconds later, Richard comes on the line. 'What's up?'

  'Can you do big hair?'

  'That depends. I don't like big hair. Who's it for?'

  'My client, Daniella Popescu-Miller. It's sort of Mr Whippy cum Cruella de Vil.'

  'Urgh.'

  'Please, Richard. I'm desperate. She needs someone tomorrow morning at The Berkeley, suite 319.'

  'How much is it worth?'

  'A Mr Whippy 99 ice cream?'

Rachel and I are standing at the entrance to the underground station with the Tower of London forming a perfect Legoland backdrop before us. It is cold and crisp and office workers on their way back from lunch hurry past in small clusters, heads to the wind and clutching at their coats. The vast Tower, white and serene, with its endless turrets and spires jutting up into the sky like jagged teeth, disgorges several coach loads of Japanese visitors. Obediently, in small groups, they scuttle behind tour guides who brandish garish umbrellas raised high in the air, and then one by one they mount humming, impatient coaches, only to be whisked off to yet another British must-see sight. We have spent the last few hours tucked away inside the Tower's great belly of grisly dungeons, towers, cobbled yards and gardens, trying to convince the British media that the definitive guide to the Crown jewels is a book worthy of a one thousand pound price tag. We had set up the press conference in the Keeper's Lodge, a special privilege granted us because of the nature of the book, and more than fifty journalists had attended. There had been the usual small but manageable hurdles. A Chinese film crew had asked whether they could purchase a copy of the book together with an actual trinket from the Queen's private jewels collection and a regional newspaper reporter had wanted to know whether the timber used for printing had come from sustainable rainforests. Heaven only knew but I certainly didn't have time to find out there and then. I managed to give a long-winded response that confused the journalist to such a degree that she forgot the original question altogether. Always a good media tactic. A few of the press had been a bit miffed to discover that Claude Blair, the esteemed editor, was not in fact the Mr Blair they had been expecting, but admitted it was a good ruse, albeit a joke at their own expense. Of course, had they bothered to check with the Labour apparatchiks at ten Downing Street in advance, they'd have known it was a prank.

  When the photocall and interviews were over, the press drifted off towards the main exit while Rachel and I cleared up the debris with the Tower's event staff and did a final recap of plans for tonight's big event. In a matter of hours we will be back here again. I swear I could find my way to the White Tower blindfolded, so many recces have we done.

  Rachel yawns.

  'Well, that went off pretty well. I think I'll have a few hours' kip before we come back tonight.'

  'What?'

  'Just kidding. Were you happy with it?'

  'So far so good, but maybe we should just do one final run through with the staff.'

  She pats my arm. 'We've done endless rehearsals. Everything's under control. Nothing can go wrong.'

  'Famous last words.'

  'Shall we head back?'

  'Not before we've had something to eat. I've a feeling this is going to be one heck of a long day.'

'I've got George on line one.'

  The tiny white light on the telephone face flashes hysterically. Now what's up.

  'Watcha guv?'

  'Hi George. Whatever it is, make it snappy. I'm about to leave for the Tower.'

  'All right, all right. Keep your hair on.'

  'So?'

  'Just wanted to wish you luck. I'll be coming with Miss Dracula.'

  'Thanks, well just behave and keep her happy. I'll see you tonight.'

  'Just one other thing. A little bird mentioned something about you opening a cattery.'

  'Did it now? It wouldn't be a stork with long hair and an obsession for heels and red suits?'

  'Spot on. Rachel just mentioned it in passing. Got me thinking.'

  'Oh no. Look, it's just a tiny germ of an idea.'

  'I like it. Seriously. Nice little sideline and it would be good for me to have a European outlet. Have to be exclusive though.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'For my pet range of course!'

  'Sorry George, you've lost me.'

  'Think about it, guv. We could create an exclusive outlet of my cat and dog gear attached to your cattery.'

  I decide to humour him for fun. 'I don't suppose you've thought about the heat angle? I mean leather capes and cat suits might not go down too well.'

  'Yeh, I know that. I'm thinking linens, Egyptian cottons, cat and dog shades…'

  I erupt with laughter.

  'I'm serious, guv.'

  'I know, that's what's worrying me.'

  'Let's have a serious heads up when you're through this event.'

  'You're incorrigible.'

  'I know. So what do you say?'

Rachel wipes her mouth with a paper serviette and takes a sip of her coffee.

  'Do you know, I just can't believe it's all over. What a relief!'

  I pop a chip in my mouth and nod in agreement. Once again we're sitting in a fast food restaurant dressed up to the nines and attracting unwelcome glances from other diners. The plastic seats are uncomfortable and the fierce strip lighting is making my eyes water.

  'Why is it that after any major bash we end up in here or KFC? You know I hate fast food.'

  'That's because it's late and we need somewhere to sit and recover.'

  'I'd prefer The Dorchester bar.'

  'Yeah, right. Dream on if you think it's coming out of the company budget.'

  She takes a bite of her burger hungrily and gives me a disapproving look.

  'Well, we deserve the odd treat. I mean, it was a resounding success. Everyone said so. The Stationery Office was ecstatic.'

  Rachel licks a finger. 'It was brilliant but that doesn't justify blowing a hundred quid at the Dorch.'

  I think back to just a few hours ago when together we had welcomed hundreds of guests in their finery to the floodlit White Tower. The event had been spectacular, with stylish waiters in sleek black carrying silver platters groaning with the most delectable canapés. The champagne flowed and trickles of laughter rose high into the wooden rafters of the elegant building as clusters of guests poured through the great arched doorways into the hall. Daniella Popescu-Miller swathed in a mink stole and with diamonds the size of olives in her ears, had arrived on the arm of Greedy George, attired understatedly in a black silk nehru jacket and trousers. Roger Katz from royal warrant bookshop, Hatchards, and the cream of the publishing world had turned up in force, as had the world's top gemmologists. There in the centre of the Tower was the focus of everyone's attention, a colossal, red leather-bound book with thick gilt-edged pages, the culmination of forty years of research:
The Crown Jewels.

  At some point during the evening Prince Charles had to make his way over to the book for a photo opportunity. We had positioned the photographers behind a red cord at a discreet distance but with a perfect angle to film proceedings, but alas! At the last minute a zealous attendant at the Tower had altered the plinth's position so that the Prince's face was obscured when he viewed the book. The press photographers seethed behind their rope until I felt I had no option but to sidle up to the Prince and request that he turn towards them while I stealthily manoeuvred the plinth. He kindly obliged and the press, thankfully, got their shots.

  Rachel is giggling. 'Oh, I did crack up when you went up to the Prince and whispered in his ear. God knows what everyone thought!'

  'Desperate situations require desperate actions, Rachel.'

  'Well, it made all of us laugh. You won't live that down in the office!'

  'I'm always the comic turn.'

  She sniggers into her serviette. 'That's why we like working with you! So, what was it like to meet Prince Charles?'

  'Very nice.'

  She thumps a hand down on the table. 'Is that it?'

  'What do you want me to say? He was charming, of course.'

  Rachel bursts out laughing 'Well, what did he say to you?'

  'Oh, this and that.'

  She puts a hand to her head. 'You're the limit!'

  I stand up and button up my jacket. 'Right. That's it.'

  'Are you off?' says Rachel in some surprise.

  'We are.'

  'Where to?'

  'The Dorchester, of course.'

Noel is standing in the hallway, an earnest expression on his face.

  'Now, please look after these plane tickets and remember that Sister Teresa will be expecting you the morning after you arrive in Colombo. The details are all in the itinerary I've given you.'

  'That's all fine. I've booked the hotel and everything's under control.'

  He nods slowly. 'My nephew will greet you on arrival. He'll take you to your hotel.'

  'There's no need, honestly.'

  'Yes, there is. It's Sri Lankan hospitality.' He smiles. 'And I wish you good luck with your fete in Mallorca. The orphanage will be so happy.'

  'I do hope so. Mind you, I doubt we'll make much money from second-hand toys and books.'

  'Every little helps,' he says magnanimously.

  We shake hands and I head off into the drizzle outside. Not for the first time I'm fumbling in my handbag, wondering what on earth I've done with my dratted umbrella.

Ed is sounding downbeat.

  'Put it this way, if the BBC makes all these redundancies, I could be in the front line.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  He gives a sniff. 'Think how many years I've worked there. They probably want to employ some bright young things on lesser salaries.'