Christmas at Tiffany's (6 page)

‘That’s a lot of ologies. And so you’ve – what? Basically been all over the world? The very top, very bottom and all around?’

‘Pretty much. Saw more of Borneo than I wanted to when I discovered a new species of giant slipper orchid and got chased through the jungle by Abu Sayyaf bandits.’

‘Oh my God!’ she cried, appalled. ‘Were you okay?’

He held his arms out and looked down at himself. ‘As you can see, a happy ending.’

‘I bet you haven’t been to the North Pole, though,’ she teased.

‘Sure. I’ve been there three times and the South once. I was on the expedition where they discovered the lost world in the Dry Valleys. Fourteen
million
years old. Can you believe it?’ He shook his head in amazement.

‘Not really. Your poor mother!’

Henry chuckled, baffled by her response. His
mother
wasn’t what most women thought of when he told them he battled the harshest conditions on earth as a living. The alpha-hunter image tended to have a devastating effect on women. ‘My mother?’

Cassie slapped a hand across her heart in pity. ‘She must never sleep for worrying that you’re going to be mauled by polar bears or shot by pirates—’

‘Or be used as a skittle by speeding penguins,’ he quipped.

‘Don’t joke! It all sounds
so
dangerous,’ she chided.

‘So’s crossing the road in this city,’ he said.

‘It’s not the same thing. There must be peril at every turn – disease, hypothermia, even just getting lost . . .’

‘We navigate by GPS. It’s all done by satellite now.’

‘Well, what if the satellite, I don’t know, stops working?’

‘Like it runs out of batteries?’ He laughed. ‘You worry too much, Cass. But thanks for the optimism. Maybe you could be the mascot on our next expedition!’

‘You’re going away again?’

‘Next year. That’s why I’m here, actually. Trying to drum up sponsorship. I’ve been invited to join an Arctic Biodiversity Assessment for two months next spring.’

She shook her head, aghast. ‘Why has Suzy never mentioned any of this to me?’

‘Why would she? I don’t suppose I feature much in your conversations,’ he said, laughing lightly. ‘Although I’m sure they’re all the poorer for it.’

Cassie shook her head, trying to absorb the scope of his world. His horizons, his adventures, his memories were literally global.

‘Wow. And to think I thought it was a big deal coming
here
.’

‘Your first time?’ he asked.

‘My first time
anywhere.
I haven’t even crossed the border into England since Gil and I got . . . married.’

There was an awkward silence as Cassie attempted to sustain the impression of someone who was
absolutely fine.

Henry rescued them both. ‘Well then, seeing as this is your first time here, I hope you’ve drawn up your list,’ he said, changing tack.

‘List?’ she repeated blankly.

‘Yes. You know, the one you have to draw up every time you go somewhere new, of all the things you’re going to do, places you’re going to see. A bit like the “Things to Do Before You Die” list, but less ambitious. You don’t need to bungee jump off Trump Towers, for example.’

Cassie giggled. ‘So you mean like having tea at the Waldorf – that kind of thing?’

‘Precisely. Something that gives
you
the New York experience.’ He folded his arms, waiting to hear about her planned cultural adventure.

‘Hmmmmm.’ Cassie pursed her lips and thought. And thought. And thought. And slowly began to panic. ‘Ummmmm . . . Hmmm . . . Yes, tricky.’

And it was. She wasn’t here as a tourist or an executive. She was a refugee. On the run. She was here because her friend had taken her in, and of all the options open to her, it had been as far away from Gil and Wiz as she had been able to get. Drawing up a list and getting the lowdown on the Big Apple wasn’t flashing up on her radar yet. Hell, she’d been here less than a day.

‘Okay, I get the picture,’ Henry chuckled. ‘Tell you what, I’ll write it for you. I’m an expert at these things, even if I do say so myself. I draw one up for every place I go to.’

‘You do?’ Of course he did, she instantly chided herself. As one of the last true explorers of the world, he probably managed to turn even a weekend city break into a great odyssey.

‘Sure.’

The sound of springy feet slapping the pavement like Riverdancers made her turn. Kelly and Raoul were back from their ‘light’ run.

‘Hey!’ Kelly beamed, spotting Henry, then his bleeding knees. ‘Ooh. What happened? Some nutter?’

‘Yeah,’ Henry laughed.

Cassie rolled her eyes. ‘Ha-ha.’

Kelly looked between the two of them. It was clear that Cassie had been crying again. She walked over and linked arms casually with her, giving her a little squeeze.

‘How long are you here for?’ Kelly asked him.

‘Just a couple of days. I’m in with Breitling next week. Thanks so much for putting a word in for me, by the way.’

Kelly shrugged. ‘Hey, what’re big sisters for, right, Cass?’ Technically, he was Suzy’s little brother – only by eighteen months, although that was like the distance between the earth and the moon when they were children – but as they’d all grown up like sisters, they all regarded Henry as their own little brother.

‘Breitling’s one of my clients,’ Kelly explained to Cassie. ‘I suggested they talk to Henry, given that National Geographic have given the go-ahead on the documentary now. It’s a good branding exercise for them – after all, extreme conditions are their USP. And with the boy looking like that –’ she reached up and patted his cheeks like a doting mother – ‘what’s not to love? I’ll see if I can muscle in on the meeting too,’ she said, winking at him.

Cassie smiled, nodding. Wow. Television as well. His star was rising – she could see it, almost like a vapour trail. It was hard to remember him as the little brother they’d forced to be their baby when they played Mummies and Daddies, and who they’d performed mock surgeries on when they played Doctors. And – oh God, she remembered now – they’d all paid him fifty pence to let them practise kissing on him (not Suzy, of course – the thought grossed her out), which, given his rigid terror, meant they graduated on to boys their own age with all the technique of having snogged windows.

Poor man. It was a wonder he seemed so normal.

‘Well, we must get together before you go,’ Kelly said, lunging into some elastic stretches. ‘Tomorrow night?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘I’ll put our names on the door at the usual, shall I?’

‘Great.’ He smiled at Cassie. ‘You’ll like it,’ he reassured her.

‘Okay,’ she said, smiling back.

‘Is Lacey with you?’ Kelly asked.

‘Yes, she is.’

‘Great. Then it’ll be the four of us.’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Who’s Lacey?’ Cassie asked, looking between Henry and Kelly.

‘Henry’s fiancée.’

‘Oh!’ She looked back at him. ‘Congratulations, Henry.’

‘Thanks.’

‘When’s the wedding?’

‘Next summer. After I get back.’

‘Great. Great. That’s great,’ she nodded.

‘Well, I’d better go. I’m in a rush – as you probably saw from the comfort of the bench,’ he chuckled.

She went to smack him on the arm, but he dodged out of the way, laughing, already out of reach.

‘Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?’

‘Because it’s classified. Today’s itinerary is on a strictly need-to-know basis.’

‘But I do need to know.’

‘No you don’t,’ Kelly said, striding ahead with her arm out. A cab screeched to a halt beside her. ‘Get in,’ she commanded.

Cassie sighed and slid along the seat.

‘222 Broome, between Lafayette and Broadway,’ she said to the driver. ‘And don’t take Park. They’re still digging up around East 14th and traffic’s a bitch.’

Cassie cupped her chin in her hand and looked out through the foggy window that looked like it had been cleaned with milk. Eww. She moved her face a little further away and made a mental note to put a pack of antibacterial wipes in her bag – her new bag. She reached down to her lap and stroked the green ostrich skin and the large hooped bamboo handles of the bag Kelly had given her after dinner last night. She had ‘negotiated’ it for her from her new client, Maddy Foxton, and Cassie’s insistence upon paying had died away instantly when Kelly had told her what it cost.

‘So, how did your date go last night?’ she asked, turning to Kelly, who was frantically checking texts. As soon as they’d left the apartment, she was back in Manhattan mode and the Kelly of yesteryear would now be held on ice till they were alone again. Apparently, Fashion Week was in a couple of weeks’ time and this was one of the twin peaks of the New York social calendar. Everything was needed
now!
and
yesterday!
and Kelly had been glued to the phone the second they’d got back from their run, barking orders and taking them in turn. But even with emergency demands bearing down on her from all sides, the appointments she’d made for Cassie’s ‘Manhattan makeover’ were still mandatory. Supposedly the need for it was
that
urgent.

Until landing here, Cassie had thought she looked all right. Not amazing. Not like a model or actress or socialite with long legs and twiglet arms. But she was slim, with ‘lovely’ breasts, Gil had always said (although clearly he’d said a lot of things that were lies), elegant hands and thick ‘autumn’ blonde hair that fell down the middle of her back in rope-like twists. But as she looked out of the window at the ultra-blonded, tweezered, blow-dried women getting into limos and cabs, she knew she just looked plain, dishevelled . . . a mess.

‘Tch not well, I left after ten minutes.’

‘Ten minutes! But Kelly, that’s so rude. He must have been so offended.’

Kelly stopped texting and looked at her. Cassie could see the pity in her eyes. ‘Sweetie, if there’s one thing you’re going to have to learn out here, it’s that you can’t go around worrying about what other people think.’

‘But . . . But . . . doesn’t that just make you . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Obnoxious?’

Kelly raised a threaded eyebrow. ‘It makes you
efficient
, Cassie. Nobody’s got time to waste chatting inanely to someone they clearly have nothing in common with.’ She shrugged. ‘He knew the score. I imagine he was grateful not to squander the rest of his night too. We’re all busy.’

Cassie shook her head and looked back out of the window. Miles of plate-glass windows stretched ahead of her, all immaculately polished, with artfully positioned mannequins behind them toting jewel-coloured dresses or preppy trench coats and slacks, or glittering watches or feathered hats, or plush furs, or . . . the reflections further along became too dazzling to see through, and she watched instead the reflected workmen holding up the traffic ahead.

‘It was nice bumping into Henry earlier,’ Kelly murmured in a softer tone.

‘Yes, it was such a surprise. It’s been so long since we last saw each other. Over ten years, I think.’

‘He must look pretty different from when you last him, huh?’

Cassie smiled. ‘He certainly does. He’s going to draw me up a list of things to do out here. I can’t wait to see what he’s going to put on it,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders excitedly. ‘I got the impression he knows this place pretty well.’

‘Yeah. He’s pretty . . .’ she searched for the word . . . ‘worldly. A lot of the companies who sponsor his sort of gig are based out here,’ Kelly said, texting again. ‘I see him from time to time.’

‘I like the idea of a list. It’ll be good, I think – you know, give me a focus.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ Kelly said, patting her leg. ‘Bebe Washington will give you focus when you step through the door tomorrow. Trust me! There’s nothing like “two weeks till showtime” to show you what focus looks like.’

A look of terror washed over Cassie’s face as she wondered for the millionth time what she was letting herself in for. It was one thing Kelly putting her up out here – but giving her a job too? Hell, not even giving her one,
making one up
. Cassie didn’t have a scratch of experience in any industry. She’d been married since the age of twenty – had dropped out of her Sociology degree at Bristol in the process – and all she’d done since then was manage the estate and the shooting season. Which wasn’t to say it didn’t have its organizational demands, but it didn’t carry over well on a CV. Kelly knew as well as Cassie did that no one would give her a second look. They were both of them going to have to wing it.

But Cassie was worried. Kelly’s company, Hartford Communications, was one of the most prestigious fashion PR firms in Manhattan. She had Bebe Washington (womenswear), Maddy Foxton (accessories), Breitling (watches), Paloma Morriss (shoes) and Dilly (jewellery) on her books. She kept a tight ship, never doubling up on the categories, so that each account benefited from her sole attention on their brand in their market. And it worked. She had been known to move fledgling or struggling brands into profitability within six months, and revive ailing brands by placing them with the right ‘personalities’ and starting underground word-of-mouth campaigns that got everyone salivating. As a result, she could charge whatever fees she liked. She had become a one-stop shop for each market, and she was the envy of every other fashion PR on the East Coast, who struggled to juggle and place their competing accounts. Rumour had been rife in the industry that when the accessories slot came up (the predecessor Tilbury having been bought and amalgamated into the Richemont stable, thereby reluctantly bringing their PR in-house), there had been no fewer than thirty-six pitches, and that Kelly had interviewed them all individually. Maddy Foxton had been an outsider for the position, but her hand-dyed leathers in jewel colours and traditional artisans’ techniques had impressed Kelly. With her ‘patronage’, Maddy Foxton was now on the cusp of becoming a sensation.