Spin Cycle (25 page)

CHAPTER 25

The moment she got back from Heathrow—the police having released her after she’d finally persuaded them to phone Lenny and Joe, who confirmed her story about Pitsy—Rachel tried ringing Matt. She was desperate to tell him it was over between her and Adam. But there was no reply from either the home number or his mobile.

The following day she tried again and got Tractor, who said he hadn’t heard from Matt either, although he did remember him saying something about maybe staying on in Nottingham for a week or so. She asked if he had a contact number. He hadn’t. On top of that he’d left his mobile at home.

“Look,” Tractor said, “he wasn’t expecting to hear from you until after the new year. He probably just fancies a complete rest after working so hard on the Donkulator. Anyway, he can’t stay away too long, he’s got the Burkina Faso trade delegation coming next week. I’m sure he’ll get in touch. Stop worrying.”

But she couldn’t. By the third day she’d convinced herself that Matt was now so angry with her for keeping her relationship with Adam a secret that he never wanted to speak to her or see her again.

By the end of the week she was aching for him so much that she wasn’t eating or sleeping. She even took her mobile with her on New Year’s Eve (Tractor had gotten himself, Shelley and Rachel invited to Polly the aromatherapist’s party), just in case he decided to call at midnight. But he didn’t.

At 2
A.M.
everybody decided to do a conga down the street. Rachel was last in line, mobile clamped to her ear. By now she was so slaughtered, she was dialing numbers at random in the hope of finding him. Most people hung up on her, but she had a particularly pleasant few minutes exchanging New Year’s greetings with a Mormon family in the Wirral.

The only thing preventing her falling into a complete decline was the thought of meeting Xantia and the possibility, however remote, that her former employer might help her get her career back on track.

She assumed Xantia would return from Venice around the third or fourth of January. There seemed little point in calling first to arrange an appointment. That way Rachel would be forced to state her case over the phone and Xantia would probably refuse to listen and hang up. Her best bet, she decided, was to keep driving over to the house, on the off chance of catching her.

There was nobody home on the third or fourth of January.

On the morning of the fifth, just as she was about to head off to Xantia’s for the third time, the phone rang. It was Tractor to say he’d found a note from Matt on the kitchen table.

“It was under the Marmite jar. He must have written it before he went away. Thing is this place is such a pit, plus I’ve been off Marmite recently so I missed it. Anyway it says to tell you that before you go and see Xantia you should ring his mate Phil.”

Rachel frowned. The name meant nothing to her. “That’s all?”

“Yeah, and there’s a number.” He read it out loud to her. “Look, I’m sorry if it’s important, but I’ve only just noticed it. Let me know how you get on. Bye, kid.”

* * * * *

“God, Rache, that’s amazing,” Shelley said as she sat at her kitchen table attempting to do her mascara, eat toast and breast-feed Satchmo at the same time. She was due at the film studio at eleven and was running late. (Both Rachel and Tractor had begged her not to go back to work so soon after having Satchmo, but the Flowtex people had decided to make a second commercial as a follow-up to the first, and the money—not to mention them being perfectly happy to let her bring Satchmo with her—had been far too tempting to turn down.) “You mean this mate of Matt’s actually built Otto and Xantia’s secret room?”

“Yep,” Rachel said. “While he was renovating the house for them. All my instincts were right. According to Phil, their love affair with the house is a complete sham. They loathe it. They both think it’s utterly cold and bleak. The secret room is where they go to slob out and get comfortable. Apparently Otto ended up offering Phil and his workmen five hundred quid each to keep quiet about it.”

“You’ll certainly have no trouble getting Xantia on your side now. All you have to do is threaten to tell the papers about the secret room. Easy. She’ll crumble like a slice of stale cheese. Do my lashes look OK?”

“They’re fine. What do you mean, all I’ve got to do is threaten to tell the papers? That’d be blackmail. I’d be descending to Pitsy’s level.”

“Rache,” Shelley said, strapping Satchmo into his portable car seat, “when we discovered the secret room, you said you couldn’t hurt the Marxes, but things have changed. It’s your career on the line here. Pitsy has to get her comeuppance.”

Shelley got up and walked over to the fridge. Rachel sat thinking. “I know,” Rachel began, “but—”

She broke off. Shelley had just opened a Tupperware container and was now stuffing two large green leaves into her bra cups.

“Cabbage,” she said, seeing the quizzical look on Rachel’s face. “Great for cracked nipples.”

Just then Shelley’s cordless went off. It was Tractor phoning to wish her good luck and offering to come round in the evening and heat up a couple of Tesco organic pizzas.

“So how are you two?” Rachel grinned as Shelley put the phone back down on the table. “Have you—you know . . . ?”

“Leave off,” Shelley laughed. “I only had a baby ten days ago. Now I know exactly what your mum meant about walking around with a giant eggplant between her legs. . . . No, we’re just taking things really slowly.”

Rachel nodded approvingly.

“So,” Shelley went on, “are you going to come on heavy with Xantia or not?”

“Not. I just don’t have the stomach to start threatening her.”

“Well,” Shelley said, still arranging cabbage leaves in her bra cups, “it’s up to you, but unless the woman’s undergone a lobotomy and complete personality change over Christmas, I think it might be your only option.”

* * * * *

Almost as soon as she’d rung the bell, Rachel heard the clack of stilettos on limestone. Xantia’s new housekeeper, she assumed.

The door was answered by a tarty-looking middle-aged woman wearing skin-tight red satin trousers and black patent heels. A giant gold hoop hung from each earlobe.

Rachel introduced herself and explained she used to work for Xantia. “I know she’s probably very busy, but I was just wondering if she might be able to spare me a couple of minutes. There’s something important I need to discuss with her.”

The woman said nothing. Instead she stood looking at Rachel, a vague smile on her lips, her head bent slightly to one side. The silence was making Rachel feel awkward. She smiled back sheepishly, taking in the woman’s platinum blond bob and tight black Lycra top. Across the front was an embossed red-and-gold tiger’s head—mouth open, teeth bared. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something vaguely familiar about her.

“Hello, Rachel,” the woman said eventually. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Rachel recognized that haughty tone at once.

“Omigod. Xantia?” she said in amazement. “Is that you?”

“Yes, dahling,” she squealed, her voice suddenly brimming over with childish excitement, “it’s me. The new me. Or should I say . . . the real me.”

She did a twirl, followed it with another and then stood back to let Rachel in. Still blinking in stunned amazement, Rachel stepped into the hall.

“But I don’t get it. What on earth’s . . . ?”

But before she could finish her sentence, the two of them were suddenly surrounded by a small group of people. In her confused state, it took Rachel a few seconds to take in the cameras and lights and realize it was a TV crew.

“OK, people,” Xantia said, clapping her hands. “Take five, will you? There’s something important I simply must attend to.”

Somebody said “Cut” and the cameras and lights were switched off.

As Xantia led her into the kitchen, Rachel couldn’t help noticing she’d developed a sexy wiggle in her walk.

Xantia motioned Rachel to sit down. “Nescaff?” she said, brandishing the jar.

Rachel shook her head and said she was fine.

“Oh well, I think I will.”

“Xantia, please, you have to tell me. What’s happened? What’s going on?”

“Well . . .” She began spooning instant coffee granules into a mug. “Otto and I have decided to come out of the closet—well, out of our secret room, anyway. . . .” She paused for dramatic effect, staring at the jar of Coffee-mate she was now holding, as if it were Yorick’s head. “And tell the world that we are bourgeois vulgarians . . . and proud of it.”

A whispered “Blimey” was about all Rachel could muster.

“Otto’s even designed a lapel ribbon—black, covered with tiny gold sovereigns.” She poured boiling water into the mug. “You see, we know there are others like us out there—cutting-edge designers who in order to protect their reputations, not to mention their livelihoods, are forced to live in soulless art-installation surroundings like these, when secretly they are crying out for magnolia lounges, Laura Ashley chintz and fretwork radiator covers.”

She came and sat down opposite Rachel. “Our mission,” she continued, “is to help these poor souls stop denying their true selves. God gave us cocktail cabinets that play Nessun Dorma. What right do we have to throw them back in his face?”

“So what made you and Otto decide to come out?” Rachel asked.

“Ever since we built the secret room, Otto and I have lived in fear of it being discovered and the two of us being blackmailed.”

“But Xantia,” Rachel cut across her, “I would never have done anything like that.”

“Oh no, not you, dahling.” She laughed. “You’re far too principled. Once I’d thought about it, I knew you’d never have the stomach for it.”

“Oh thanks,” Rachel said peevishly.

“Anyway, when you and your friend discovered the room, we realized what a relief it was. The stress of keeping it secret—along with maintaining the pretense about Otto’s lineage—had been driving us both mad.”

“You mean he isn’t related to Karl Marx?”

“Good God, no. His family were in buttons.” She paused again. “So anyway, we’ve decided to sell up and move to Weybridge. Just yesterday Otto and I saw this truly amazing house. It used to be owned by some Page Three model or other. There’s a state-of-the-art gym, a wood-paneled snooker room with stags’ heads all over the walls and a bar done out like a country pub. It’s to die for, Rachel. Just to die for.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Rachel said.

Xantia was looking dreamily into the distance.

“And don’t tell me, the film crew is here to follow you and Otto on the road to damask?”

“Yes. In fact, there’s another crew out with Otto. He’s gone off to buy one of those huge American camper bus things. We thought we might take it down to Newquay in the spring.”

“And what about the business?” Rachel asked.

“Well, obviously we can’t carry on selling style we don’t believe in. Otto thinks we should diversify into commemorative chinaware.”

Rachel chuckled. Bonkers as they were, she couldn’t help rather admiring the Marxes.

They fell silent for a moment or two. Rachel wondered if this might be the time to bring up Pitsy.

“Xantia, I haven’t told you the reason I’m here.”

“But I know why you’re here. I said when you arrived that I’d been expecting you.”

Rachel looked at her, puzzled.

“A friend of yours—Lenny, the chap who emceed the comedy contest—was here a few minutes ago. He brought this with him.” She turned in her chair and picked a video cassette up off the counter.

“He’s a very persuasive young man, Lenny. Refused to go until I’d watched it. . . . It’s a recording of an Australian comic called Noeleen Piccolo. At first I hoped it was this Noeleen who had stolen material from Janeece, but deep down I knew it was the other way round. Although we never admitted it, we always suspected Janeece wasn’t particularly talented. I’m ashamed to say it, but the only reason she got any engagements at all was because Otto and I bribed the bookers.”

Rachel nodded. “I see,” she said.

“It was Otto’s idea. His sister leads a bit of dog’s life married to some ne’er-do-well in Killadingo and he just wanted to do something for her. She was so proud when she thought Vanessa, or Janeece, or whatever name she goes by now, was making it. But Rachel, you have to believe me when I say that before Lenny came to see me with the tape, I had no idea that my niece was stealing material. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. Otto and I haven’t seen or spoken to Vanessa since the contest. We have no idea where she is. All I can say is that I hope she gets the punishment due her.”

She reached out and took Rachel’s hand in both of hers. “Just before you got here I spoke to Robin Metcalf at Channel 6 and explained everything.”

“You did? Oh my God, Xantia, that’s amazing. What did he say?”

“He said he’d seen you perform a few weeks ago and already knew how talented you are, assumed you got stage fright the other night and decided he couldn’t risk having you appear in any future live shows in case it happened again. I assured him you hadn’t been suffering from stage fright. He’s going to call you, either today or tomorrow.”

Rachel got up, walked round to Xantia and hugged her. “Thank you,” she said, kissing her on the cheek. “Thank you so much.”

Clearly not used to being the object of sudden, ostentatious displays of affection, Xantia’s face turned precisely the same color as her satin trousers.

Rachel danced down the garden path, into the street and straight into Lenny. “Omigod, Len,” she cried out in excitement, “I was just about to phone you. What are you doing here?”

He explained he’d seen her arrive at Xantia’s, assumed she was planning to talk to her about Pitsy and decided to hang around to find out the outcome.

“It’s sorted,” Rachel said. “Xantia’s fixed things with Channel 6, and it’s all because of you. Lenny, you saved my life. How am I ever going to thank you?” She flung her arms round him, almost knocking him off his feet.

“You can buy me a pie and chips,” he said, laughing.

“Done,” she replied, shoving her arm through his and forcing him to dance down the street with her.