Meanwhile Gardens (37 page)

“Do we have an conservation research advisory programme?”

“We do now!” Sir Edwin looked out of the window at the canal below him. “Naturally poisoned – isn’t it wonderful?”

Mr Paul looked at his watch, “Sir Edwin.” For the first time since Gem entered Mr Paul was able to get through a whole sentence without coughing. “The conference is in one hour.”

Sir Edwin lifted the lid from a salver. An unexpectedly pungent aroma filled the room. “Join me for lunch Paul.”

The assistant manager wrinkled his nose. “I’m not a great fish eater Sir Edwin.”

Faced with such a smell the boss of Peters & Peters wasn’t sure whether he was either. “Well,” he said replacing the lid, “we don’t have to have fish – what else has cook got Gem?”

Gemma did her best to look horrified. “It’s Friday Sir Edwin!”

Mr Paul got up from the sofa, “I need some time before the conference anyway.” He smiled shakily at Gemma who had begun to lay the lunch on the smoky glass coffee table.

Before the assistant manager could leave Sir Edwin reached into his polished oak executive humidor and chose two cigars. “Practice makes perfect!” he winked at Mr Paul, putting the two Cohibas in his top pocket.

The chairman of Peters & Peters closed the door on his assistant manager. “Am I having fun today Gem or what?!”

Seeing her boss in such an amicable mood made the tealady think twice about what she was going to do. She didn’t have to think for long though – her plan had been sanctioned from on high hadn’t it?

Sir Edwin disappeared into the small side room where he
kept several changes of clothes. It was also where he kept his wine.

“What sort of fish is it Gem?”

The tealady held her nose as she looked at the lightly poached fillets in their white sauce. “A flat one?” she said hopefully.

Her boss appeared brandishing a bottle of wine. “Red wine with fish, I know it’s not the done thing – there’s probably a very good reason for it too – but I fancy something a little more fruity, a tad more robust than the normal Chablis,” he winked at Gemma. “Don’t tell Lady Peters!”

Sir Edwin uncorked the bottle of Merlot and poured himself a glass. “Magnificent,” he said, holding up the glass to the light. He took a small sip, savoured the taste on his tongue before swirling the wine around his mouth and swallowing in one. “Have a glass with me Gem.”

The tealady shook her head disapprovingly. She ladled consommé into a bowl, placing it before her boss who, worryingly, appeared in no hurry to eat.

Sir Edwin poured himself another glass and sprawled back on the Chesterfield. Stretching his legs he nearly kicked over the bowl of clear soup on the table in front of him.

“Edwin!” Gemma gestured for him to take his feet off the coffee table.

“Let’s have some fun first.”

Auntie Gem looked at him doubtfully.

“Come on,” Sir Edwin patted the sofa beside him. Gem again looked at him before sitting down tentatively on the Chesterfield. Her boss pressed a speed dial on the speakerphone. “Aaron?” he said as a gruff, somewhat threatening voice filled the room, “It’s me. Stay on the line.”
Sir Edwin pressed the conference call button and dialled another number, “I’m beginning with the Standard.”

The London Evening Standard had been one of Peters & Peter’s fiercest critics over the recent ecological disaster.

“Tim?” her boss began as the editor came on the line. “It’s Sir Edwin Peters here.”

A chuckle was heard. “Ah Ed – still polluting the canals of our fair city?”

Sir Edwin let the jibe slide by. “The Environment Research Agency has just published a report you might find interesting.”

“I doubt it but go on.”

“It shows the canal pollution was caused by blue green algae, a naturally occurring organic toxin – you see I’m not the ‘Enemy of Nature’ you portrayed.”

“So you’re not going shooting this weekend?”

Sir Edwin again ignored the taunt. He had the upper hand in this one.

“Your false, malicious reporting wiped millions off the stock value, not to mention the damage to our name and goodwill leaving me no alternative but to sue you on behalf of our shareholders.”

Sir Edwin smiled at the long silence that followed.

“Let’s have lunch,” the editor began. “Harry’s Bar. Monday twelve – ”

Sir Edwin didn’t let him finish, “My lawyer is here. Aaron?”

“Mr Sheridan?” the celebrated libel lawyer’s voice, filled with menace and charm, caused Auntie Gem to shiver.

Sir Edwin clicked off the phone. He downed another glass in one and poured himself a third.

“Your soup is getting cold.”

“It’s not really a consommé day is it? I need something – ”
he opened his arms wide before putting them behind his head, “ – grander, like foie gras and oysters, like filet mignon, like – ” Edwin’s desires on power food were interrupted by a light flashing red on the phone. He pressed the button to be met by a loud belching noise.

“I reckon he’ll settle before the end of the week,” the lawyer’s voice filled the room. “Give me another.”

Sir Edwin laughed out loud. “Did he squeal?”

“He will do.”

Gem’s boss rubbed his hands in glee. “Let’s do the Guardian.”

There followed a series of similar calls. Gem and Sir Edwin listened in whilst his lawyer terrorised newspaper editors before extorting damages from them. Auntie Gem watched anxiously as her plan appeared to slip away.

After Aaron reported back with yet another successful call, Auntie Gem decided to take matters into her own hands. “No more calls until you have something to eat,” she said in her best no-nonsense voice.

“But a day like today demands something red and meaty,” Sir Edwin said with disappointment, looking at the salver under which he knew was something white and fishy.

Gem took the lid off the silver dish. She put several fillets of fish on a plate, a serving of vegetables beside them and placed the meal before Sir Edwin. “It’s Friday,” she reminded him, “you always have fish on Friday. Besides,” she gestured to the wine, “you need to line your stomach. The conference is in half an hour.”

Auntie Gem made sure her boss finished everything on his plate.

“What would I do without you Gem?” he winked at her.

The tealady stayed silent. She poured him a cup of black
coffee before gathering up the plates. As she was about to leave she turned to her boss who was already on the phone. “Have a good conference Sir Edwin,” Gemma smiled and closed the door.

I
t was the first of a series of very cold mornings. Overnight frost glistened on the cobbles and pavements making progress along Portobello Road a delicate affair.

The market echoed to the cries of street traders vying to outdo each other in their quest for custom. “Come alive Portabella, come alive!” cried one, his fleshy face red with cold. “Tree buyers where are ya?” shouted another as his neighbour cackled loudly, “Caulis are cheeeeap!”

Auntie Em slipped her arm through Ollie’s. “There’s something positively Dickensian about this street isn’t there?” she said as they passed bundles of Christmas trees piled high against the side of the road. “I half expect to see a sooty-faced urchin in a doorway, cap in hand, going ‘penny for the guy guv’?”

“That would have been a couple of weeks ago Auntie Em.”

“You know what I mean angel.”

Ollie looked at the mounds of fruit and vegetables, at the muffled and gloved traders – their breath coming out in thick clouds – at the stalls stacked with oversized cards and cheap wrapping paper. He knew exactly what she meant. “Who buys their trees this early anyway?”

“Mind yer backs!” a man carrying a tray of steaming
beetroot dodged past them. He almost tripped over Hum who trotted close to Ollie’s side.

“Did you tell Gem about my overnight in hospital?”

“No sweetness. I thought it best not to.”

“She’s been very quiet recently.”

Gemma’s mood had not gone unnoticed by Auntie Em. “She’s been deeply upset about Rion, of course, but also this business at work...” Emma sighed. She was sure there was more to it than that but couldn’t figure out what.

“You mean Edwin projectile vomiting over journalists?”

Auntie Em allowed herself a small laugh. “I would have loved to have been there – although obviously not in the front row,” she added hurriedly. Whilst it felt cruel to take pleasure in someone else’ misfortunes Auntie Em indulged herself anyway, “I gather he only got to ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ before he was brought to his knees.”

The image had been one of the few things to raise people’s spirits recently.

“But how are
you
sweetness?” Auntie Em rubbed the side of Ollie’s head. She could feel the nasty bump through her mittens.

“It’s gone down don’t you think?”

“No after effects?”

“Not that I can tell.”

They fell silent as they turned into Golborne Road. It was as if the closeness to the mews brought home the continuing lack of progress in finding Rion.

“Oh Auntie Em,” Ollie said frustrated. “She can’t just have vanished, she can’t have!”

“And Neil wasn’t much help?”

“Unfortunately to him she’s just another teenage runaway. The police haven’t got the resources nor the necessary evidence to proceed further although,” he laughed bitterly,
“by the time they get the necessary evidence it could be too late.”

“We mustn’t think that. We’re her only family, we’re all she’s got. She needs us to find her,” Auntie Em squeezed his arm tight. “What you’re doing is very important.”

“It’s like she’s just disappeared,” Ollie said despondently. “Nothing leads anywhere.”

Approaching Café Feliz they could see that, even on such a cold day, most of the pavement tables were occupied. “Come for a coffee. I’m meeting Kanwar – we can sit outside with the other hardy annuals and eat pastries ‘til we burst.”

“Not even custard tarts could charm me today,” Ollie kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got to dash Auntie Em. Johnson’s coming round. He’s probably there already.”

Ollie jogged into the mews, Hum at his heels, to find the silver Merc parked outside his house. The lifestyle enhancer was talking to Nicky who stood in her doorway opposite.

“And you’re sure you don’t have his number?” Ollie overheard Johnson ask Nicky.

“No,” she grumbled. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Whose number are you trying to find Johnson?”

The handsome man turned, embarrassed, “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Nicky rolled her eyes at Ollie. “Is Jake still coming for supper?”

“Yes.”

“See you later then,” Nicky smiled and returned to her studio.

“Whose number Johnson?”

“It’s not important.”

“Johnson!”

“Ok,” he smiled sheepishly. “I was looking for a builder – ”

“Go to the Heath.”

The lifestyle enhancer looked offended. “For some building work.”

Ollie didn’t believe it for a second.

“ – and was thinking of asking your friend – ?” Johnson fluttered his hands as if having forgotten the name.

“Yes?” Ollie knew precisely who Johnson would be looking for.

“You know,” Johnson did the fluttering thing with his hands again. “Him,” he said pointedly.

“You mean Wayne?”

Johnson clicked his fingers, “Yes!”

Ollie led the way into his workroom, “I’m not giving you Wayne’s number.”

“But you said he did such good work and – ”

“Johnson.”

“ – besides I wouldn’t mind if he nabbed the odd objet d’art – ”

“Johnson – ”

“ – it would be cheaper than some of the rent I’ve paid for in my life and – ”

“Johnson! I haven’t got his number and have no idea where to get it,” Ollie lied.

The lifestyle enhancer couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Oh,” he said gloomily.

“Besides I thought you were seeing Murray.”

“I am but this would be for building work – honest.”

Ollie looked at his friend but wasn’t in the mood to take it further. He moved to the central workstation. “What do you think?” Ollie pointed to the half-finished upside down tables Johnson had commissioned. “Hopefully they’ll be ready before Christmas.”

“No rush.”

It was obvious Johnson was still peeved.

“Look mate I can’t help with Wayne,” Ollie put his arm around Johnson’s shoulder. “Want some tea?”

Johnson wasn’t sure whether to sulk or not. “Any cakes?”

“And spliff.”

As they walked upstairs to the sitting room Ollie asked, “What else is new?”

“I’ve been to see Angie. Edwin’s stabilised but is being kept in for at least another few days.” Johnson’s sulk vanished at the first chance to gossip. “You know what they’re calling him at Glamourista?”

Ollie shook his head.

“Even Angie thought it was funny. They’ve been through several names. First it was ‘Vance’, then ‘Paris’, then ‘Ada’.” Johnson raised his eyebrows but Ollie couldn’t see the link between Sir Edwin Peters and a selection of media tarts. “You don’t read the tabloids do you? Chundering celebrities?”

As with so many other things the craze had started in the States. Vance and Paris had kicked things off, a couple of British popsters then took it up before WAG extraordinaire Ada Collaren promptly, and messily, jumped on the bandwagon. After that it was a free-for-all. It had reached the point where some of the more downmarket titles had weekly sections devoted to vomiting celebs.

All this meant nothing to Ollie. “Chundering celebrities? Is that linked to the Size Zero debate?”

“No! Well, it could be I guess – Hugh always says the lead-in to the red carpet at Oscar time is just a barf-o-rama, apparently there’s a velvet marquee’d vomitorium or something – anyway, they’ve settled on calling him ‘Bush’,” he giggled. “Bush! – get it?”

Ollie didn’t. “As in the band?”

“No dumbo, as in Dubya’s Dad?”

Ollie still didn’t get it.

“Don’t you look at those clips I send you?”

Ollie shook his head. “No. I….”

“It’s a classic! Remember when George Bush Senior was President he went on a state visit to Japan – or was it China? whatever, somewhere in the East where they value manners – anyway he spewed all over his hosts at speechmaking time. Remember?”