Who's That Girl (34 page)

'Bea—'

'… not even if it was one of those ceremonies that aren't technically legal in England, like a second cousin of mine who got married by some pygmy tribe in the Amazonian rain forest…'

'Beatrice —'

'… Poor Aunt Fi was so upset, though apparently they brought her back a lovely woven rug for the hallway—'

She looks at me, startled, as if suddenly remembering I'm here. 'Sorry, you were saying?' She smiles brightly.

'No,
you
were saying. About Julian being at the Dorchester,' I say, fixing her with a hard stare.

'Oh dear, have I said something wrong?' Anxiously she clutches at her pearls as if they can somehow protect her from my wrath.

'No, of course not,' I reassure her quickly. 'But are you sure it was him?'

She eyes me warily.

'Beatrice, this is important.'

'Absolutely,' she says gravely. 'I never forget a face.'

My mind is scrambling around. I think back to Julian's conversation with Vanessa over dinner on my birthday. He said he had to work. That's why he couldn't take the kids to the aquarium. So what was he doing at the hotel?

Business, I tell myself firmly. That's it, he was probably doing business with one of his posh clients. I do it all the time. I'm always in hotels.

'And what time was it?'

'Um, now, let me think…' She tips her head on one side. 'Gosh, it was after we'd had the petits fours, which were very good, I have to say. I'm not usually one for petits fours - too fussy, not big enough, I have to eat about a hundred - but these were absolutely deli—' She catches my expression and swiftly stops herself. 'But anyway, yes. It was after the petits fours, because Granny then fancied a brandy and I remember saying I'd have one too, but not before I'd gone to the loo.'

'Bea, is this story leading
anywhere
!' I gasp impatiently.

'Oh, most definitely.' She nods. 'Because you see, it was when I was going to the loo that I went through reception and bumped into him.'

'Julian?'

'The very same. He was coming out of the lift and we sort of collided. He was very apologetic about it all. But there was something else.'

'What?' I feel like a detective in a TV series.

'He dropped his room key on the floor.'

'Room key?'

My chest tightens. I can hear Vanessa's voice replaying in my ears: '7
think Julian's having an
affair
.'

No, there's got to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe the meeting was in the room. In fact that must be it. I mean, look at me, I met with Larry Goldstein in his room, didn't I?

'Uh-huh.' Beatrice is nodding decisively. 'I know because I picked it up. Actually, it wasn't a room key at all. It was for the' - she lowers her voice to a reverential whisper - 'Oliver Messel Suite.'

I look at her blankly. 'What's that?'

'Only the most romantic suite at the Dorchester!' she exclaims. 'It was Marlene Dietrich's favourite. Granny told me. Apparently, they were good friends.'

OK, so now it's a business meeting in the most romantic suite at the Dorchester. Well, I suppose it's
possible
.

'And what time did you say this was?'

'I didn't. But I would guess it was quite late. Probably after ten.'

But not probable. A business meeting that runs until ten o'clock at night? In the Dorchester's most romantic suite? On a Sunday? When he told Vanessa he had to be at the office?

My stomach churns and flips over. I think about the condoms I spotted in his shopping basket and Vanessa's admission that they haven't slept together for ages. I have to admit, the evidence against him seems overwhelming.

'So come on, tell me.' I zone back in to see Beatrice looking at me, her eyes wide with curiosity.

'Why all the questions? Didn't your friend Vanessa tell you they were staying there?'

'No… no, she didn't.' I shake my head and force a smile. 'She must have forgotten - she's terrible like that.' My mind is whirling. I quickly grab hold of it. 'Talking of which, has Larry Goldstein called yet?' I say, swiftly changing the subject.

'First thing,' nods Beatrice. 'You're meeting him at twelve noon at a nail bar in Notting Hill.' I throw her a quizzical look,

'He has a manicure appointment at eleven,' she explains, 'It must be an LA thing.'

'Or maybe because he's a dentist. You know, putting your fingers in other people's mouths,' I suggest. At least I hope so. I hate to think he has manicures just for the hell of it.

'Oh, I didn't think of that.' She beams. 'And there I was wondering what colour polish he'd be choosing - you know, whether he was a pillar-box-red man or more a French manicure.' She starts giggling, then remembers herself. 'Anyway, afterwards he's taking you to see the new space.'

Now she's got my full attention. 'Oh, so he finally made a decision on the location for the clinic?'

'Yes, and he said he was sure you'd approve.'

'Really?' I feel a glow of pleasure. At least something's going right. 'Where is it exactly?'

'He wouldn't say. He said he wanted to keep it as a surprise.' Beatrice hugs herself. 'Gosh, how fab. I love surprises, don't you?'

I feel a flicker of trepidation. What was that about not wanting any more surprises? First it was Julian, and now this?

Still, remember to think positive, I tell myself firmly. Everything's going to be fine. In fact it's going to be more than fine - it's going to be great. And looking at Beatrice, I smile brightly.

'Absolutely!'

Chapter Thirty-two

Larry is having his cuticles trimmed when I arrive. 'Hey, how's it going?' He beams, flashing me his neon smile as I walk into the
über-trendy
nail bar, filled with ladies who do lunch and very little else. He's reclining on a massage chair, being attended to by two pretty therapists in white coats. One is doing his manicure; the other is massaging his bare feet.

'Hi. Great, thanks,' I reply, hovering uncertainly by some shelves, which are filled with different bottles of polish, and looking for a place to sit. This isn't the kind of venue I'm used to for a PR

meeting, but then Larry Goldstein isn't my usual kind of client.

'Come on over and meet Andrea and Carla,' he drawls loudly over the hum of small talk and clink of cappuccino cups.

I weave through the massage chairs towards him, carrying my briefcase and handbag, and making sure to hide my nails. I'm in desperate need of a manicure myself.

'This is Charlene, my PR guru,' says Larry Goldstein, gesturing towards me. The two manicurists glance up briefly and smile. 'Hiya,' they both chirp in unison, before turning back to his cuticles and feet.

'Actually, it's Charlotte,' I correct him, smiling.

'Whatever,' he laughs. 'It's all the same.'

Actually, no, it's not all the same.
How would you like to be called Leslie, or Lenny, or Leo
? I feel like asking, but of course I don't. I remain perfectly calm, a professional smile pinned on to my face. This is an important meeting. Larry Goldstein is a valued client. And this is going to be a good week, remember?

'So, you've decided on the location for the new clinic?' I say brightly, moving straight on to business and the reason I'm here.

'Andrea, honey, can you just press a little harder on my left foot? Yep, that's great.' Satisfied, he glances over at me. 'Sorry about that.'

'It's quite all right.' I smile evenly. 'Now, about the new-space…'

'Did you know we have these pressure points on the soles of our feet? It's to do with the meridian lines. Like acupuncture. It's a way of rebalancing the
chi
.'

'Actually, yes, I did know that,' I say briskly. 'It's one of the basic principles of reflexology.'

'See, she's not just a pretty face, is she?' he quips to his beauty therapists, who glance at me and laugh politely.

'But anyway, back to the new space…'
For the third time
.

'Clear varnish or just buffed?' interrupts Carla.

I curl my fingers into little balls.

'I don't know. What do you think, Charlene?' Larry stops peering at his fingers and looks up at me, eyebrows raised questioningly. 'Clear or buffed?'

OK, that's it - I give up. Trying to conduct a business meeting here is impossible. 'Buffed,' I reply shortly.

He screws up his forehead. 'You think so?' he asks, staring at his nails.

'Clear, then,' I deadpan.

'No, I think you're right. I'll go with buffed,' he says after a moment's deep thought. 'See, I always take my PR guru's advice. She knows best.' He passes his hand to Carla, who's waiting patiently. She reaches for her buffer. 'Actually, before you do that, can we change the setting on this massage chair to "pulse" rather than "vibrate"?'

I watch as Carla starts fiddling with the controls.

'You know, they do great herbal teas here,' he says, casually glancing over at me, as if I'm not actually sitting here waiting for him, but simply passing the time of day. 'You should have one.'

Settling back in his chair, he wriggles a little to get comfortable, then closes his eyes. 'I'll be right with you.'

Right with you.

Now, in my language that means soon, as in a few minutes, as in no more than five. Ten at a push. In Larry Goldstein's language it means just over an hour of having his feet rubbed, his heels pumiced and his hands wrapped in steaming cloths - apparently, it's the special bankholiday pampering package - while the whole time flirting with Andrea and Carla, offering them discount veneers and tooth-bleaching, and handing out business cards with instructions to give him a call.

It's past one when we finally leave the salon.

'Everything OK?' As we step on to the street, he turns to me, looking very pleased with himself.

'Absolutely.' I smile back breezily, trying not to think about the hour I've just wasted, drinking four cups of herbal tea, because as long as the client's happy, everything is OK. That's the basic rule of PR.

'So are you excited to see the new space?'

'Very.' I nod.
Finally
.

'Awesome. Let's jump in a cab.' He smiles, sticking out his hand.

'Are you sure you don't want me to drive? I've got my car on a meter and—' I begin, but he's already flagging down a passing cab.

'No, this is the only way I travel when I'm in London. They're so cool.' He beams as the cab pulls up at the kerbside. 'I'm thinking about getting one shipped over to the States. I can drive around Beverly Hills in it, instead of the Porsche. What do you reckon?'

I reckon you'll look like a complete prat, I think, while enthusing, 'Wow, yeah, that sounds like a great idea,' as he holds open the door for me. 'So, tell me, where are we going?' I ask, climbing inside.

'Now that would be telling,' he says, looking very pleased with himself as he slides in next to me on the seat. Like really next to me. Like our thighs are pressed up against each other. All at once I get the same feeling I got in that restaurant the first time we met. I can't be sure, but something feels off. A nagging air of discomfort. Am I imagining it or is he squashing his leg right up against mine?

I go for imagining it. Nevertheless I cross my legs, in a manoeuvre intended to move my thigh as far away from his as possible.

'Just straight ahead, mate,' hollers Larry to the driver, in a faux cockney accent that's even worse than Dick van Dyke's in
Mary Poppins
.

I can see the cabbie grimace in the rear-view mirror. Probably the only thing worse to a blackcab driver than pretending to be a cockney is giving them directions. 'American, are ya?' he asks gruffly.

'Is my accent that bad?' laughs Larry Goldstein jovially.

'Worse,' growls the cabbie.

'Jeez, I love these guys,' confides Larry, flashing a smile.

I nod wordlessly. I'm not sure if Larry even understands the concept of sarcasm. It's as if those teeth of his are a superhero's deflector shield, which no irony can penetrate. I wonder where we're going. Beatrice mentioned something about how I'd approve, so I wonder if he's taken my advice and gone for a hipper location. Then again, he's really in love with the whole English-tradition thing, so he might have plumped for one of the grand suites in Harley Street, along with all his peers.

'Right here.'

The cab driver suddenly slams on his brakes and we lurch to a juddering halt. I glance sharply out of the window to see we've only gone about a hundred yards.

'How much will that be?' says Larry Goldstein to the driver.

I look at him in puzzlement. I know everyone says people from LA don't like to walk, but this is ridiculous. We've only driven round the corner. I turn to Larry Goldstein, but he's already climbing out of the cab to pay the driver, and totally confused, I climb out after him. 'But I don't understand.'

'It was your idea - it's all credit to you,' he's saying, as the cab drives off and we're left on the pavement. 'You gave me the idea at dinner, telling me I needed to be in a more fashionable area, somewhere a lot more hip, cooler…'

I take in my surroundings. We're standing on Westbourne Grove, near the junction with Portobello.

'… somewhere that's filled with celebrities, the place to be seen…'

How funny. I was just here on Saturday at the market.

Larry starts walking slowly along the pavement, making sweeping movements with his arm, like a pioneer looking at the vista. '… and I thought back to our first meeting, and how we met at the Electric at your suggestion, and how cool the location was. So I put in a few calls to my people straight away and they managed to find this place. Of course, it wasn't without its problems - there's someone in there right now - but if you throw money at a problem, it goes away.' He gives me a look that sends a shiver down my spine. 'We just offered the landlord three times the rent. They couldn't refuse.'

'But what about the person who was renting already?'

'Business is business,' he says, his voice steely.

'You mean, they've just had to pack up and move out?'

As I'm speaking, I'm having this really,
really
horrible feeling, it's creeping over me, and my blood is running cold. I'm wrong. I have to be wrong.

'What kind of shop was it?'

We're still walking along, but my legs suddenly feel like dead weights.

'Oh, nothing special, some kind of junk store.' He shrugs dismissively. I feel myself stiffen in protest. Nothing special!
Junk store
! Because I know what he's talking about. I know before I even look.